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CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


f 


CREATIVE 

EVOLUTION 


BY 

HP]NRI  ^RGSON 

MEMBER  OF  THE  INSTITUTE 
PROFESSOR  AT  THE  COLLEGE  DE  FRANCE 


AUTHORIZED  TRANSLATION  BY 

ARTHUR  MITCHELL,  Ph.D. 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1913 


6 

3 4 36 

• bH 
^'id- 


Copyright,  1911, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

O p f t » 

Oo^  - CL- 

4-ei, 

S'- 


BOSfOK  CCLLE0E  UBHAM 
CHESTNUT  HJLt  MA  02167. 


CAMELOT  PRESS,  l8-20  OAK  STREET,  NEW  YORK 


V 


TRANSLATOR’S  NOTE 


In  the  writing  of  this  English  translation  of  Professor 
Bergson’s  most  important  work,  I was  helped  by  the  friendly 
interest  of  Professor  William  James,  to  whom  I owe  the 
illumination  of  much  that  was  dark  to  me  as  well  as  the 
happy  rendering  of  certain  words  and  phrases  for  which 
an  English  equivalent  was  difficult  to  find.  His  sym- 
pathetic appreciation  of  Professor  Bergson’s  thought  is 
well  known,  and  he  has  expressed  his  admiration  for  it 
in  one  of  the  chapters  of  A Pluralistic  Universe.  It  was 
his  intention,  had  he  lived  to  see  the  completion  of  this 
translation,  himself  to  introduce  it  to  English  readers 
in  a prefatory  note. 

I wish  to  thank  my  friend.  Dr.  George  Clarke  Cox,  for 
many  valuable  suggestions. 

I have  endeavored  to  follow  the  text  as  closely  as 
possible,  and  at  the  same  time  to  preserve  the  living  union 
of  diction  and  thought.  Professor  Bergson  has  himself 
carefully  revised  the  whole  work.  We  both  of  us  wish 
to  acknowledge  the  great  assistance  of  Miss  Millicent  Murby. 
She  has  kindly  studied  the  translation  phrase  by  phrase, 
weighing  each  word,  and  her  revision  has  resulted  in  many 
improvements. 

But  above  all  we  must  express  our  acknowledgment 
to  Mr.  H.  Wildon  Carr,  the  Honorary  Secretary  of  the 

V 


VI 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


Aristotelian  Society  of  London,  and  the  writer  of  several 
studies  of  '‘Evolution  Creatrice/’*  We  asked  him  to  be 
kind  enough  to  revise  the  proofs  of  our  work.  He  has 
done  much  more  than  revise  them:  they  have  come  from 
his  hands  with  his  personal  mark  in  many  places.  We 
cannot  express  all  that  the  present  work  owes  to  him. 

ARTHUR  MITCHELL 


Harvard  University 


r' 

^ Proceedings  of  the  Aristotelian  Society,  vols.  ix.  and  x.,  and  Hibbert 
Journal  for  July,  1910. 


Introduction 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ix 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Evolution  of  Life — Mechanism  and  Teleology 

Of  duration  in  general — Unorganized  bodies  and  abstract  time 
— Organized  bodies  and  real  duration — Individuality  and 
the  process  of  growing  old  ......  1 

Of  transformism  and  the  different  ways  of  interpreting  it — Radi- 
cal mechanism  and  real  duration:  the  relation  of  biology  to 
physics  and  chemistry — Radical  finalism  and  real  duration: 
the  relation  of  biology  to  philosophy  ....  23 

The  quest  of  a criterion — Examination  of  the  various  theories 
with  regard  to  a particular  example — Darwin  and  insensible 
variation — De  Vries  and  sudden  variation — Eimer  and  or- 
thogenesis— Neo-Lamarckism  and  the  hereditability  of 
acquired  characters  .......  59 

Result  of  the  inquiry — The  vital  impetus  ....  87 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Divergent  Directions  of  the  Evolution  of 
Life — Torpor,  Intelligence,  Instinct 

General  idea  of  the  evolutionary  process — Growth — Divergent 
and  complementary  tendencies — The  meaning  of  progress 


and  of  adaptation  .......  98 

The  relation  of  the  animal  to  the  plant — General  tendency  of 

animal  life — The  development  of  animal  life  . . . 105 

The  main  directions  of  the  evolution  of  life:  torpor,  intelligence, 

instinct  .........  135 

The  nature  of  the  intellect  . . . . . . .151 

The  nature  of  instinct  .......  165 

Life  and  consciousness — The  apparent  place  of  man  in  nature  . 176 

vii 


Vlll 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


CHAPTER  III 

On  the  Meaning  of  Life — The  Order  of  Nature 
AND  the  Form  of  Intelligence 

Relation  of  the  problem  of  life  to  the  problem  of  knowledge — 
The  method  of  philosophy — Apparent  vicious  circle  of  the 
method  proposed — Real  vicious  circle  of  the  opposite 
method  ......... 

Simultaneous  genesis  of  matter  and  intelligence — Geometry 
inherent  in  matter — Geometrical  tendency  of  the  intellect 
— Geometry  and  deduction — Geometry  and  induction — 
Physical  laws  ........ 

Sketch  of-  a theory  of  knowledge  based  on  the  analysis  of  the 
idea  of  Disorder — Two  opposed  forms  of  order:  the  prob- 
lem of  genera  and  the  problem  of  laws — The  idea  of  “dis- 
order” an  oscillation  of  the  intellect  between  the  two  kinds 
of  order  ......... 

Creation  and  evolution — Ideal  genesis  of  matter — The  origin 
and  function  of  life — The  essential  and  the  accidental  in  the 
vital  process  and  in  the  evolutionary  movement — Man- 
kind— The  life  of  the  body  and  the  life  of  the  spirit 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Cinematggraphical  Mechanism  of  Thought  and  the 
Mechanistic  Illusion — A Glance  at  the  History  of 
Systems — Real  Becoming  and  False  Evolutionism 

Sketch  of  a criticism  of  philosophical  systems,  based  on  the 
analysis  of  the  idea  of  Immutability  and  of  the  idea  of 
“Nothing” — Relation  of  metaphysical  problems  to  the  idea 
of  “Nothing” — Real  meaning  of  this  idea 

Form  and  Becoming  ........ 

The  philosophy  of  Forms  and  its  conception  of  Becoming — 
Plato  and  Aristotle — The  natural  trend  of  the  intellect 

Becoming  in  modern  science:  two  views  of  Time. 

The  metaphysical  interpretation  of  modem  science:  Descartes, 
Spinoza,  Leibniz  ........ 

The  Criticism  of  Kant  ....... 

The  evolutionism  of  Spencer  .••••. 


PAGE 


186 


199 


220 


236 


272 

298 

304 

329 

345 

356 

363 


INDEX 


371 


INTRODUCTION 


The  history  of  the  evolution  of  life,  incomplete  as  it  yet 
is,  already  reveals  to  us  how  the  intellect  has  been  formed, 
by  an  uninterrupted  progress,  along  a line  which  ascends 
through  the  vertebrate  series  up  to  man.  It  shows  us 
in  the  faculty  of  understanding  an  appendage  of  the  faculty 
of  acting,  a more  and  more  precise,  more  and  more  complex 
and  supple  adaptation  of  the  consciousness  of  living  be- 
ings to  the  conditions  of  existence  that  are  made  for  them. 
Hence  should  result  this  consequence  that  our  intellect, 
in  the  narrow  sense  of  the  word,  is  intended  to  secure  the 
perfect  fitting  of  our  body  to  its  environment,  to  represent 
the  relations  of  external  things  among  themselves — in 
short,  to  think  matter.  Such  will  indeed  be  one  of  the 
conclusions  of  the  present  essay.  We  shall  see  that  the 
human  intellect  feels  at  home  among  inanimate  objects, 
more  especially  among  solids,  where  our  action  finds  its 
fulcrum  and  our  industry  its  tools;  that  our  concepts 
have  been  formed  on  the  model  of  solids;  that  our  logic 
is,  pre-eminently,  the  logic  of  solids;  that,  consequently, 
our  intellect  triumphs  in  geometry,  wherein  is  revealed 
the  kinship  of  logical  thought  with  unorganized  matter, 
and  where  the  intellect  has  only  to  follow  its  natural  move- 
ment, after  the  lightest  possible  contact  with  experience, 
in  order  to  go  from  discovery  to  discovery,  sure  that  ex- 
perience is  following  behind  it  and  will  justify  it  invariably. 

But  from  this  it  must  also  follow  that  our  thought, 
in  its  purely  logical  form,  is  incapable  of  presenting  the 

true  nature  of  life,  the  full  meaning  of  the  evolutionary 

ix 


X 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


movement.  Created  by  life,  in  definite  circumstances, 
to  act  on  definite  things,  how  can  it  embrace  life,  of  which 
it  is  only  an  emanation  or  an  aspect?  Deposited  by  the 
evolutionary  movement  in  the  course  of  its  way,  how  can 
it  be  applied  to  the  evolutionary  movement  itself?  As 
well  contend  that  the  part  is  equal  to  the  whole,  that  the 
effect  can  reabsorb  its  cause,  or  that  the  pebble  left  on  the 
beach  displays  the  form  of  the  wave  that  brought  it  there. 
In  fact,  we  do  indeed  feel  that  not  one  of  the  categories  of 
our  thought — unity,  multiplicity,  mechanical  causality, 
intelligent  finality,  etc. — applies  exactly  to  the  things  of 
life:  who  can  say  where  individuality  begins  and  ends, 
whether  the  living  being  is  one  or  many,  whether  it  is 
the  cells  which  associate  themselves  into  the  organism 
or  the  organism  which  dissociates  itself  into  cells?  In 
vain  we  force  the  living  into  this  or  that  one  of  our  molds. 
All  the  molds  crack.  They  are  too  narrow,  above  all  too 
rigid,  for  what  we  try  to  put  into  them.  Our  reasoning, 
so  sure  of  itself  among  things  inert,  feels  ill  at  ease  on  this 
new  ground.  It  would  be  difficult  to  cite  a biological 
discovery  due  to  pure  reasoning.  And  most  often,  when 
experience  has  finally  shown  us  how  life  goes  to  work  to 
obtain  a certain  result,  we  find  its  way  of  working  is  just 
that  of  which  we  should  never  have  thought. 

Yet  evolutionist  philosophy  does  not  hesitate  to  extend 
to  the  things  of  life  the  same  methods  of  explanation  which 
have  succeeded  in  the  case  of  unorganized  matter.  It 
begins  by  showing  us  in  the  intellect  a local  effect  of  evo- 
lution, a flame,  perhaps  accidental,  which  lights  up  the 
coming  and  going  of  living  beings  in  the  narrow  passage 
open  to  their  action;  and  lo!  forgetting  what  it  has  just 
told  us,  it  makes  of  this  lantern  glimmering  in  a tunnel  a 
Sun  which  can  illuminate  the  world.  Boldly  it  proceeds, 
with  the  powers  of  conceptual  thought  alone,  to  the  ideal 


INTRODUCTION 


XI 


reconstruction  of  all  things,  even  of  life.  True,  it  hurtles 
in  its  course  against  such  formidable  difficulties,  it  sees 
its  logic  end  in  such  strange  contradictions,  that  it  very 
speedily  renounces  its  first  ambition.  “It  is  no  longer 
reality  itself,^’  it  says,  “that  it  will  reconstruct,  but  only 
an  imitation  of  the  real,  or  rather  a symbolical  image;  the 
essence  of  things  escapes  us,  and  will  escape  us  always; 
we  move  among  relations;  the  absolute  is  not  in  our  prov- 
ince; we  are  brought  to  a stand  before  the  Unknowable.” — 
But  for  the  human  intellect,  after  too  much  pride,  this  is 
really  an  excess  of  humility.  If  the  intellectual  form  of 
the  living  being  has  been  gradually  modeled  on  the  recip- 
rocal actions  and  reactions  of  certain  bodies  and  their 
material  environment,  how  should  it  not  reveal  to  us  some- 
thing of  the  very  essence  of  which  these  bodies  are  made? 
Action  cannot  move  in  the  unreal.  A mind  born  to  specu- 
late or  to  dream,  I admit,  might  remain  outside  reality, 
might  deform  or  transform  the  real,  perhaps  even  create 
it — as  we  create  the  figures  of  men  and  animals  that  our 
imagination  cuts  out  of  the  passing  cloud.  But  an  in- 
tellect bent  upon  the  act  to  be  performed  and  the  reaction 
to  follow,  feeling  its  object  so  as  to  get  its  mobile  impression 
at  every  instant,  is  an  intellect  that  touches  something 
of  the  absolute.  Would  the  idea  ever  have  occurred  to 
us  to  doubt  this  absolute  value  of  our  knowledge  if  philoso- 
phy had  not  shown  us  what  contradictions  our  speculation 
meets,  what  dead-locks  it  ends  in?  But  these  difficulties 
and  contradictions  all  arise  from  trying  to  apply  the  usual 
forms  of  our  thought  to  objects  with  which  our  industry 
has  nothing  to  do,  and  for  which,  therefore,  our  molds 
are  not  made.  Intellectual  knowledge,  in  so  far  as  it 
relates  to  a certain  aspect  of  inert  matter,  ought,  on  the 
contrary,  to  give  us  a faithful  imprint  of  it,  having  been 
stereotyped  on  this  particular  object.  It  becomes  relative. 


XU 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


only  if  it  claims,  such  as  it  is,  to  present  to  us  life — that  is 
to  say,  the  maker  of  the  stereotype-plate. 

Must  we  then  give  up  fathoming  the  depths  of  life? 
Must  we  keep  to  that  mechanistic  idea  of  it  which  the 
understanding  will  always  give  us — an  idea  necessarily 
artificial  and  symbolical,  since  it  makes  the  total  activity 
of  life  shrink  to  the  form  of  a certain  human  activity  w^hich 
is  only  a partial  and  local  manifestation  of  life,  a result 
or  by-product  of  the  vital  process?  We  should  have  to  do 
so,  inde'ed,  if  life  had  employed  all  the  psychical  potential- 
ities it  possesses  in  producing  pure  understandings — that 
is  to  say,  in  making  geometricians.  But  the  line  of  evo- 
lution that  ends  in  man  is  not  the  only  one.  On  other 
paths,  divergent  from  it,  other  forms  of  consciousness  have 
been  developed,  which  have  not  been  able  to  free  themselves 
from  external  constraints  or  to  regain  control  over  them- 
selves, as  the  human  intellect  has  done,  but  which,  none 
the  less,  also  express  something  that  is  immanent  and 
essential  in  the  evolutionary  movement.  Suppose  these 
other  forms  of  consciousness  brought  together  and  amalga- 
mated with  intellect : would  not  the  result  be  a conscious- 
ness as  wide  as  life?  And  such  a consciousness,  turning 
around  suddenly  against  the  push  of  life  which  it  feels 
behind,  would  have  a vision  of  life  complete — would  it 
not? — even  though  the  vision  were  fleeting. 

It  will  be  said  that,  even  so,  we  do  not  transcend  our 
intellect,  for  it  is  still  with  our  intellect,  and  through  our 
intellect,  that  we  see  the  other  forms  of  consciousness. 
And  this  would  be  right  if  we  were  pure  intellects,  if  there 
did  not  remain,  around  our  conceptual  and  logical  thought, 
a vague  nebulosity,  made  of  the  very  substance  out  of 
which  has  been  formed  the  luminous  nucleus  that  we  call 
the  intellect.  Therein  reside  certain  powers  that  are 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 

complementary  to  the  understanding,  powers  of  which 
we  have  only  an  indistinct  feeling  when  we  remain  shut  up 
in  ourselves,  but  which  will  become  clear  and  distinct 
when  they  perceive  themselves  at  work,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
evolution  of  nature.  They  will  thus  learn  what  sort  of 
effort  they  must  make  to  be  intensified  and  expanded  in 
the  very  direction  of  life. 

This  amounts  to  saying  that  theory  of  knowledge  and 
theory  of  life  seem  to  us  inseparable.  A theory  of  life  that 
is  not  accompanied  by  a criticism  of  knowledge  is  obliged 
to  accept,  as  they  stand,  the  concepts  which  the  under- 
standing puts  at  its  disposal:  it  can  but  enclose  the  facts, 
willing  or  not,  in  pre-existing  frames  which  it  regards  as 
ultimate.  It  thus  obtains  a S5nnbolism  which  is  convenient, 
perhaps  even  necessary  to  positive  science,  but  not  a direct 
vision  of  its  object.  On  the  other  hand,  a theory  of  knowl- 
edge which  does  not  replace  the  intellect  in  the  general 
evolution  of  life  will  teach  us  neither  how  the  frames  of 
knowledge  have  been  constructed  nor  how  we  can  enlarge 
or  go  beyond  them.  It  is  necessary  that  these  two  in- 
quiries, theory  of  knowledge  and  theory  of  life,  should 
join  each  other,  and,  by  a circular  process,  push  each  other 
on  unceasingly. 

Together,  they  may  solve  by  a method  more  sure,  brought 
nearer  to  experience,  the  great  problems  that  philosophy 
poses.  For,  if  they  should  succeed  in  their  common  en- 
terprise, they  would  show  us  the  formation  of  the  intellect, 
and  thereby  the  genesis  of  that  matter  of  which  our  in- 
tellect traces  the  general  configuration.  They  would 
dig  to  the  very  root  of  nature  and  of  mind.  They  would 
substitute  for  the  false  evolutionism  of  Spencer — which 
consists  in  cutting  up  present  reality,  already  evolved, 
into  little  bits  no  less  evolved,  and  then  recomposing  it 


XIV 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


with  these  fragments,  thus  positing  in  advance  everything 
that  is  to  be  explained — a true  evolutionism,  in  which 
reality  would  be  followed  in  its  generation  and  its  growth. 

But  a philosophy  of  this  kind  will  not  be  made  in  a 
day.  Unlike  the  philosophical  systems  properly  so  called, 
each  of  which  was  the  individual  work  of  a man  of  genius 
and  sprang  up  as  a whole,  to  be  taken  or  left,  it  will  only 
be  built  up  by  the  collective  and  progressive  effort  of  many 
thinkers,  of  many  observers  also,  completing,  correcting 
and  improving  one  another.  So  the  present  essay  does  not 
aim  at  resolving  at  once  the  greatest  problems.  It  simply 
desires  to  define  the  method  and  to  permit  a glimpse,  on 
some  essential  points,  of  the  possibility  of  its  application. 

Its  plan  is  traced  by  the  subject  itself.  In  the  first 
chapter,  we  try  on  the  evolutionary  progress  the  two 
ready-made  garments  that  our  understanding  puts  at  our 
disposal,  mechanism  and  finality;^  we  show  that  they  do 
not  fit,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but  that  one  of  them 
might  be  recut  and  resewn,  and  in  this  new  form  fit  less 
badly  than  the  other.  In  order  to  transcend  the  point 
of  view  of  the  understanding,  we  try,  in  our  second  chapter, 
to  reconstruct  the  main  lines  of  evolution  along  which  life 

^ The  idea  of  regarding  life  as  transcending  teleology  as  well  as 
mechanism  is  far  from  being  a new  idea.  Notably  in  three  articles  by 
Ch.  Dunan  on  “Le  probleme  de  la  vie”  {Revue  'philosophique,  1892)  it 
is  profoundly  treated.  In  the  development  of  this  idea,  we  agree  with 
Ch.  Dunan  on  more  than  one  point.  But  the  views  we  are  presenting 
on  this  matter,  as  on  the  questions  attaching  to  it,  are  those  that  we 
expressed  long  ago  in  our  Essai  sur  les  donnees  immediates  de  la  con- 
science (Paris,  1889).  One  of  the  principal  objects  of  that  essay  was, 
in  fact,  to  show  that  the  psychical  life  is  neither  unity  nor  multiplicity, 
that  it  transcends  both  the  mechanical  and  the  intellectual,  mechanism 
and  finalism  having  meaning  only  where  there  is  “distinct  multiplicity,” 
“spatiality,”  and  consequently  assemblage  of  pre-existing  parts: 
“real  duration”  signifies  both  undivided  continuity  and  creation.  In 
the  present  work  we  apply  these  same  ideas  to  life  in  general,  regarded, 
moreover,  itself  from  the  psychological  point  of  view. 


INTRODUCTION 


XV 


has  traveled  by  the  side  of  that  which  has  led  to  the  human 
intellect.  The  intellect  is  thus  brought  back  to  its  generat- 
ing cause,  which  we  then  have  to  grasp  in  itself  and  follow 
in  its  movement.  It  is  an  effort  of  this  kind  that  we  at- 
tempt— incompletely  indeed — in  our  third  chapter.  A 
fourth  and  last  part  is  meant  to  show  how  our  understand- 
ing itself,  by  submitting  to  a certain  discipline,  might 
prepare  a philosophy  which  transcends  it.  For  that, 
a glance  over  the  history  of  systems  became  necessary, 
together  wdth  an  analysis  of  the  tw^o  great  illusions  to  which, 
as  soon  as  it  speculates  on  reality  in  general,  the  human 
understanding  is  exposed. 


f A' 


■a; 


j; 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  LIFE — MECHANISM  AND  TELEOLOGY 

The  existence  of  which  we  are  most  assured  and  which 
we  know  best  is  unquestionably  our  own,  for  of  every 
other  object  we  have  notions  which  may  be  considered 
external  and  superficial,  whereas,  of  ourselves,  our  per- 
ception is  internal  and  profound.  What,  then,  do  we 
find?  In  this  privileged  case,  what  is  the  precise  mean- 
ing of  the  word  “exist”?  Let  us  recall  here  briefly  the 
conclusions  of  an  earlier  work. 

I find,  first  of  all,  that  I pass  from  state  to  state.  I 
am  warm  or  cold,  I am  merry  or  sad,  I work  or  I do  noth- 
ing, I look  at  what  is  around  me  or  I think  of  something 
else.  Sensations,  feelings,  volitions,  ideas — such  are  the 
changes  into  which  my  existence  is  divided  and  which 
color  it  in  turns.  I change,  then,  without  ceasing.  But 
this  is  not  saying  enough.  Change  is  far  more  radical 
than  we  are  at  first  inclined  to  suppose. 

For  I speak  of  each  of  my  states  as  if  it  formed  a block 
and  were  a separate  whole.  I say  indeed  that  I change, 
but  the  change  seems  to  me  to  reside  in  the  passage  from 
one  state  to  the  next:  of  each  state,  taken  separately, 
I am  apt  to  think  that  it  remains  the  same  during  all  the 
time  that  it  prevails.  Nevertheless,  a slight  effort  of 
attention  would  reveal  to  me  that  there  is  no  feeling,  no 
idea,  no  volition  which  is  not  undergoing  change  every 

moment:  if  a mental  state  ceased  to  vary,  its  duration 

1 


2 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[chap. 


would  cease  to  flow.  Let  us  take  the  most  stable  of  in- 
ternal states,  the  visual  perception  of  a motionless  external 
object.  The  object  may  remain  the  same,  I may  look  at 
it  from  the  same  side,  at  the  same  angle,  in  the  same  light; 
nevertheless  the  vision  I now  have  of  it  differs  from  that 
which  I have  just  had,  even  if  only  because  the  one  is  an 
instant  older  than  the  other.  My  memory  is  there,  which 
conveys  something  of  the  past  into  the  present.  My  men- 
tal state,  as  it  advances  on  the  road  of  time,  is  continually 
swelling  with  the  duration  which  it  accumulates:  it  goes 
on  irfcreasing — rolling  upon  itself,  as  a snowball  on  the 
snow.  Still  more  is  this  the  case  with  states  more  deeply 
internal,  such  as  sensations,  feelings,  desires,  etc.,  which 
do  not  correspond,  like  a simple  visual  perception,  to  an 
unvarying  external  object.  But  it  is  expedient  to  dis- 
regard this  uninterrupted  change,  and  to  notice  it  only 
when  it  becomes  sufficient  to  impress  a new"  attitude  on 
the  body,  a new  direction  on  the  attention.  Then,  and 
then  only,  we  find  that  our  state  has  changed.  The 
truth  is  that  we  change  w"ithout  ceasing,  and  that  the 
state  itself  is  nothing  but  change. 

This  amounts  to  saying  that  there  is  no  essential  differ- 
ence between  passing  from  one  state  to  another  and  per- 
sisting in  the  same  state.  If  the  state  which  “remains 
the  same”  is  more  varied  than  v/e  think,  on  the  other  hand 
the  passing  from  one  state  to  another  resembles,  more  than 
we  imagine,  a single  state  being  prolonged;  the  transition 
is  continuous.  But,  just  because  we  close  our  eyes  to 
the  unceasing  variation  of  every  psychical  state,  we  are 
obliged,  when  the  change  has  become  so  considerable 
as  to  force  itself  on  our  attention,  to  speak  as  if  a new  state 
were  placed  alongside  the  previous  one.  Of  this  new  state 
we  assume  that  it  remains  unvarying  in  its  turn,  and  so 
on  endlessly.  The  apparent  discontinuity  of  the  psychical 


I.] 


DURATION 


3 


life  is  then  due  to  our  attention  being  fixed  on  it  by  a 
series  of  separate  acts:  actually  there  is  only  a gentle 
slope;  but  in  following  the  broken  line  of  our  acts  of  at- 
tention, we  think  we  perceive  separate  steps.  Tme, 
our  psychic  life  is  full  of  the  unforeseen.  A thousand 
incidents  arise,  which  seem  to  be  cut  off  from  those  which 
precede  them,  and  to  be  disconnected  from  those  which 
follow.  Discontinuous  though  they  appear,  however, 
in  point  of  fact  they  stand  out  against  the  continuity  of  a 
background  on  which  they  are  designed,  and  to  which 
indeed  they  owe  the  intervals  that  separate  them;  they 
are  the  beats  of  the  drum  which  break  forth  here  and  there 
in  the  symphony.  Our  attention  fixes  on  them  because 
they  interest  it  more,  but  each  of  them  is  borne  by  the 
fluid  mass  of  our  whole  psychical  existence.  Each  is  only 
the  best  illuminated  point  of  a moving  zone  which  com- 
prises all  that  we  feel  or  think  or  will — all,  in  short,  that 
we  are  at  any  given  moment.  It  is  this  entire  zone  which 
in  reality  makes  up  our  state.  Now,  states  thus  defined 
cannot  be  regarded  as  distinct  elements.  The}"  continue 
each  other  in  an  endless  flow. 

But,  as  our  attention  has  distinguished  and  separated 
them  artificially,  it  is  obliged  next  to  reunite  them  by 
an  artificial  bond.  It  imagines,  therefore,  a formless 
ego^  indifferent  and  unchangeable,  on  which  it  threads 
the  psychic  states  which  it  has  set  up  as  independent 
entities.  Instead  of  a flux  of  fleeting  shades  merging 
into  each  other,  it  perceives  distinct  and,  so  to  speak, 
solid  colors,  set  side  by  side  like  the  beads  of  a necklace; 
it  must  perforce  then  suppose  a thread,  also  itself  solid, 
to  hold  the  beads  together.  But  if  this  colorless  sub- 
stratum is  perpetually  colored  by  that  which  covers  it, 
it  is  for  us,  in  its  indeterminateness,  as  if  it  did  not  exist, 
since  we  only  perceive  what  is  colored,  or,  in  other  words. 


4 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


psychic  states.  As  a matter  of  fact,  this  substratum  has 
no  reality;  it  is  merely  a symbol  intended  to  recall  un- 
ceasingly to  our  consciousness  the  artificial  character  of 
the  process  by  which  the  attention  places  clean-cut  states 
side  by  side,  where  actually  there  is  a continuity  which 
unfolds.  If  our  existence  were  composed  of  separate 
states  with  an  impassive  ego  to  unite  them,  for  us  there 
would  be  no  duration.  For  an  ego  which  does  not  change 
does  not  endure,  and  a psychic  state  which  remains  the 
same  so  long  as  it  is  not  replaced  by  the  following  state 
does  hot  endure  either.  Vain,  therefore,  is  the  attempt 
to  range  such  states  beside  each  other  on  the  ego  supposed 
to  sustain  them : never  can  these  solids  strung  upon  a solid 
make  up  that  duration  which  flows.  What  we  actually 
obtain  in  this  way  is  an  artificial  imitation  of  the  internal 
life,  a static  equivalent  which  will  lend  itself  better  to  the 
requirements  of  logic  and  language,  just  because  we  have 
eliminated  from  it  the  element  of  real  time.  But,  as  regards 
the  psychical  life  unfolding  beneath  the  symbols  which 
conceal  it,  we  readily  perceive  that  time  is  just  the  stuff 
it  is  made  of. 

There  is,  moreover,  no  stuff  more  resistant  nor  more 
substantial.  For  our  duration  is  not  merely  one  instant 
replacing  another;  if  it  were,  there  would  never  be  any- 
thing but  the  present — no  prolonging  of  the  past  into  the 
actual,  no  evolution,  no  concrete  duration.  Duration 
is  the  continuous  progress  of  the  past  which  gnaws  into 
the  future  and  which  swells  as  it  advances.  And  as  the 
past  grows  without  ceasing,  so  also  there  is  no  limit  to 
its  preservation.  Memory,  as  we  have  tried  to  prove,* 
is  not  a faculty  of  putting  away  recollections  in  a drawer, 
or  of  inscribing  them  in  a register.  There  is  no  register, 
no  drawer;  there  is  not  even,  properly  speaking,  a faculty, 

» Matiere  et  m&nioire,  Paris,  1896,  chaps,  ii.  and  iii. 


I.l 


DURATION 


5 


for  a faculty  works  intermittently,  when  it  will  or  when  it 
can,  whilst  the  piling  up  of  the  past  upon  the  past  goes  on 
without  relaxation.  In  reality,  the  past  is  preserved  by 
itself,  automatically.  In  its  entirety,  probably,  it  follows 
us  at  every  instant;  all  that  we  have  felt,  thought  and 
willed  from  our  earliest  infancy  is  there,  leaning  over  the 
present  which  is  about  to  join  it,  pressing  against  the  portals 
of  consciousness  that  would  fain  leave  it  outside.  The 
cerebral  mechanism  is  arranged  just  so  as  to  drive  back  into 
the  unconscious  almost  the  whole  of  this  past,  and  to  admit 
beyond  the  threshold  only  that  which  can  cast  light  on 
the  present  situation  or  further  the  action  now  being  pre- 
pared— in  short,  only  that  which  can  give  useful  work. 
At  the  most,  a few  superfluous  recollections  may  succeed 
in  smuggling  themselves  through  the  half-open  door. 
These  memories,  messengers  from  the  unconscious,  remind 
us  of  what  we  are  dragging  behind  us  unawares.  But, 
even  though  we  may  have  no  distinct  idea  of  it,  we  feel 
vaguely  that  our  past  remains  present  to  us.  What  are 
we,  in  fact,  what  is  our  character,  if  not  the  condensation 
of  the  history  that  we  have  lived  from  our  birth — nay, 
even  before  our  birth,  since  we  bring  with  us  prenatal^ 
dispositions?  Doubtless  we  think  with  only  a small 
part  of  our  past,  but  it  is  with  our  entire  past,  including 
the  original  bent  of  our  soul,  that  we  desire,  wifl  and  act^ 
Our  past,  then,  as  a whole,  is  made  manifest  to  us  in.  its 
impulse;  it  is  felt  in  the  form  of  tendency,  although  a 
small  part  of  it  only  is  known  in  the  form  of  idea. 

From  this  survival  of  the  past  it  follows  that  conscious- 
ness cannot  go  through  the  same  state  twice.  The  cir- 
cumstances may  still  be  the  same,  but  they  will  act  no 
longer  on  the  same  person,  since  they  find  him  at  a new 
moment  of  his  history.  Our  personality,  which  is  being 
built  up  each  instant  with  its  accumulated  experience. 


6 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


rCHAP. 


changes  without  ceasing.  By  changing,  it  prevents  any 
state,  although  superficially  identical  with  another,  from 
ever  repeating  it  in  its  very  depth.  That  is  why  our 
duration  is  irreversible.  We  could  not  live  over  again 
a single  moment,  for  we  should  have  to  begin  by  effacing 
the  memor}"  of  all  that  had  followed.  Even  could  we  erase^ 
this  memor}^  from  our  intellect,  we  could  not  from  our  will. 

Thus  our  personality  shoots,  grows  and  ripens  with- 
out ceasing.  Each  of  its  moments  is  something  new  added 
to  what  was  before.  We  may  go  further:  it  is  not  only 
something  new,  but  something  unforeseeable.  Doubt- 
less, my  present  state  is  explained  by  what  was  in  me  and 
by  what  was  acting  on  me  a moment  ago.  In  analyzing 
it  I should  find  no  other  elements.  But  even  a superhuman 
intelligence  would  not  have  been  able  to  foresee  the  simple 
indivisible  form  which  gives  to  these  purely  abstract 
elements  their  concrete  organization.  For  to  foresee  con- 
sists of  projecting  into  the  future  what  has  been  perceived 
in  the  past,  or  of  imagining  for  a later  time  a new  group- 
ing, in  a new  order,  of  elements  already  perceived.  But 
that  which  has  never  been  perceived,  and  which  is  at  the 
same  time  simple,  is  necessarily  unforeseeable.  Now  such 
is  the  case  with  each  of  our  states,  regarded  as  a moment 
in  a history  that  is  gradually  unfolding:  it  is  simple,  and 
it  cannot  have  been  already  perceived,  since  it  concen- 
trates in  its  indi\fisibility  all  that  has  been  perceived  and 
what  the  present  is  adding  to  it  besides.  It  is  an  original 
moment  of  a no  less  original  history. 

The  finished  portrait  is  explained  by  the  features  of 
the  model,  by  the  nature  of  the  artist,  by  the  colors  spread 
out  on  the  palette;  but,  even  with  the  knowledge  of  what 
explains  it,  no  one,  not  even  the  artist,  could  have  fore- 
seen exactly  what  the  portrait  would  be,  for  to  predict 
it  would  have  been  tcLproduce  iLbefore  it  was  produced — 


I.] 


DURATION 


7 


an  absurd  hypothesis  which  is  its  own  refutation.  Even 
so  with  regard  to  the  moments  of  our  life,  of  which  we  are 
the  artisans.  Each  of  them  is  a kind  of  creation.  And 
just  as  the  talent  of  the  painter  is  formed  or  deformed — 
in  any  case,  is  modified — under  the  very  influence  of  the 
works  he  produces,  so  each  of  our  states,  at  the  moment 
of  its  issue,  modifies  our  personality,  being  indeed  the  new 
form  that  we  are  just  assuming.  It  is  then  right  to  say 
that  what  we  do  depends  on  what  we  are;  but  it  is  necessary 
to  add  also  that  we  are,  to  a certain  extent,  what  we  do, 
and  that  we  are  creating  ourselves  continually.  This 
creation  of  self  by  self  is  the  more  complete,  the  more  one 
reasons  on  what  one  does.  For  reason  does  not  proceed 
in  such  matters  as  in  geometry,  where  impersonal  premisses 
are  given  once  for  all,  and  an  impersonal  conclusion  must 
perforce  be  drawn.  Here,  on  the  contrary,  the  same 
reasons  may  dictate  to  different  persons,  or  to  the  same 
person  at  different  moments,  acts  profoundly  different, 
although  equally  reasonable.  The  truth  is  that  they 
are  not  quite  the  same  reasons,  since  they  are  not  those 
of  the  same  person,  nor  of  the  same  moment.  That  is 
why  we  cannot  deal  with  them  in  the  abstract,  from  out- 
side, as  in  geometry,  nor  solve  for  another  the  problems 
by  which  he  is  faced  in  life.  Each  must  solve  them  from 
within,  on  his  own  account.  But  we  need  not  go  more 
deeply  into  this.  We  are  seeking  only  the  precise  meaning 
that  our  consciousness  gives  to  this  word  ‘‘exist,’’  and  we 
find  that,  for  a conscious  being,  to  exist  is  to  change,  to 
change  is  to  mature,  to  mature  is  to  go  on  creating  oneself 
endlessly.  Should  the  same  be  said  of  existence  in  general? 

A material  object,  of  whatever  kind,  presents  opposite 
characters  to  those  which  we  have  just  been  describing. 
Either  it  remains  as  it  is,  or  else,  if  it  changes  under  the 


8 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


influence  of  an  external  force,  our  idea  of  this  change  is 
that  of  a displacement  of  parts  which  themselves  do  not 
change.  If  these  parts  took  to  changing,  we  should  split 
them  up  in  their  turn.  We  should  thus  descend  to  the 
molecules  of  which  the  fragments  are  made,  to  the  atoms 
that  make  up  the  molecules,  to  the  corpuscles  that  generate 
the  atoms,  to  the  “ imponderable’^  within  which  the 
corpuscle  is  perhaps  a mere  vortex.  In  short,  we  should 
push  the  division  or  analysis  as  far  as  necessary.  But  we 
should  stop  only  before  the  unchangeable. 

Now,  we  say  that  a composite  object  changes  by  the 
displacement  of  its  parts.  But  when  a part  has  left  its 
position,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  its  return  to  it.  A 
group  of  elements  which  has  gone  through  a state  can 
therefore  always  find  its  way  back  to  that  state,  if  not  by 
itself,  at  least  by  means  of  an  external  cause  able  to  restore 
everything  to  its  place.  This  amounts  to  saying  that  any 
state  of  the  group  may  be  repeated  as  often  as  desired, 
and  consequently  that  the  group  does  not  grow  old.  It 
has  no  history. 

Thus  nothing  is  created  therein,  neither  form  nor  matter. 
What  the  group  will  be  is  already  present  in  what  it  is, 
provided  “what  it  is”  includes  all  the  points  of  the  uni- 
verse with  which  it  is  related.  A superhuman  intellect 
could  calculate,  for  any  moment  of  time,  the  position  of 
any  point  of  the  system  in  space.  And  as  there  is  nothing 
more  in  the  form  of  the -whole  than  the  arrangement  of 
its^parts,  the  future  forms  of  the  system  are  theoretically 
visible  in  its  present  configuration. 

All  our  belief  in  objects,  all  our  operations  on  the  systems 
that  science  isolates,  rest  in  fact  on  the  idea  that  time  does 
not  bite  into  them.  We  have  touched  on  this  question 
in  an  earlier  work,  and  shall  return  to  it  in  the  course  of 
the  present  study.  For  the  moment,  we  will  confine  our- 


I.l 


UNORGANIZED  BODIES 


9 


selves  to  pointing  out  that  the  abstract  time  t attributed 
by  science  to  a material  object  or  to  an  isolated  system 
consists  only  in  a certain  number  of  simultaneities  or  more 
generally  of  correspondences,  and  that  this  number  re- 
mains the  same,  whatever  be  the  nature  of  the  intervals 
between  the  correspondences.  With  these  intervals  we 
are  never  concerned  when  dealing  vith  inert  matter;  or, 
if  they  are  considered,  it  is  in  order  to  count  therein  fresh 
correspondences,  between  which  again  w^e  shall  not  care 
what  happens.  Common  sense,  which  is  occupied  with 
detached  objects,  and  also  science,  which  considers  isolated 
systems,  are  concerned  only  with  the  ends  of  the  intervals 
and  not  with  the  intervals  themselves.  Therefore  the  flow 
of  time  might  assume  an  infinite  rapidity,  the  entire  past, 
present,  and  future  of  material  objects  or  of  isolated 
systems  might  be  spread  out  all  at  once  in  space,  without 
there  being  an^dhing  to  change  either  in  the  formulae 
of  the  scientist  or  even  in  the  language  of  common  sense. 
The  number  t w^ould  alw^ays  stand  for  the  same  thing;  it 
wmuld  still  count  the  same  number  of  correspondences 
betw’een  the  states  of  the  objects  or  systems  and  the  points 
of  the  line,  ready  drawm,  which  would  be  then  the  “course 
of  time.  ” 

Yet  succession  is  an  undeniable  fact,  even  in  the  material 
wmrld.  Though  our  reasoning  on  isolated  systems  may 
imply  that  their  history,  past,  present,  and  future,  might 
be  instantaneously  unfurled  like  a fan,  this  history,  in 
point  of  fact,  unfolds  itself  gradually,  as  if  it  occupied 
a duration  like  our  owm.  If  I w^ant  to  mix  a glass  of  sugar 
and  w’ater,  I must,  willy  nilly,  w^ait  until  the  sugar  melts. 
This  little  fact  is  big  wdth  meaning.  For  here  the  time  I 
have  to  w^ait  is  not  that  mathematical  time  wFich  would 
apply  equally  well  to  the  entire  history  of  the  material 
w’orld,  even  if  that  history  were  spread  out  instantaneously 


10 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  space.  It  coincides  with  my  impatience,  that  is  to  say, 
with  a certain  portion  of  my  own  duration,  which  I cannot 
protract  or  contract  as  I like.  It  is  no  longer  something 
thought,  it  is  something  lived.  It  is  no  longer  a relation, 
it  is  an  absolute.  What  else  can  this  mean  than  that  the 
glass  of  water,  the  sugar,  and  the  process  of  the  sugar’s 
melting  in  the  water  are  abstractions,  and  that  the  VTiole 
within  which  they  have  been  cut  out  by  my  senses  and  un- 
derstanding progresses,  it  may  be  in  the  manner  of  a 
consciousness? 

Certainly,  the  operation  by  which  science  isolates  and 
closes  a system  is  not  altogether  artificial.  If  it  had  no 
objective  foundation,  we  could  not  explain  why  it  is  clearly 
indicated  in  some  cases  and  impossible  in  others.  We 
shall  see  that  matter  has  a tendency  to  constitute  isolable 
systems,  that  can  be  treated  geometrically.  In  fact,  we 
shall  define  matter  by  just  this  tendency  But  it  is  only 
a tendency.  Matter  does  not  go  to  the  end,  and  the 
isolation  is  never  complete.  If  science  does  go  to  the 
end  and  isolate  completely,  it  is  for  convenience  of  study; 
it  is  understood  that  the  so-called  isolated  system  remains 
subject  to  certain  external  influences.  Science  merely 
leaves  these  alone,  either  because  it  finds  them  slight 
enough  to  be  negligible,  or  because  it  intends  to  take  them 
into  account  later  on.  It  is  none  the  less  true  that  these 
influences  are  so  many  threads  which  bind  up  the  system 
to  another  more  extensive,  and  to  this  a third  which  in- 
cludes both,  and  so  on  to  the  system  most  objectively 
isolated  and  most  independent  of  all,  the  solar  system  com- 
plete. But,  even  here,  the  isolation  is  not  absolute.  Our 
sun  radiates  heat  and  light  beyond  the  farthest  planet. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  it  moves  in  a certain  fixed  direction, 
drawing  with  it  the  planets  and  their  satellites.  The 
thread  attaching  it  to  the  rest  of  the  universe  is  doubtless 


I.l 


UNORGANIZED  BODIES 


11 


v^eiy  tenuous.  Nevertheless  it  is  along  this  thread  that 
is  transmitted  down  to  the  smallest  particle  of  the  world 
in  which  w^e  live  the  duration  immanent  to  the  whole 
of  the  universe. 

The  universe  endures.  The  more  we  study  the  nature 
of  time,  the  more  we  shall  comprehend  that  duration  means 
invention,  the  creation  of  forms,  the  continual  elaboration 
of  the  absolutely  new.  The  systems  marked  off  by  science 
endure  only  because  they  are  bound  up  inseparably  with 
the  rest  of  the  universe.  It  is  true  that  in  the  universe 
itself  two  opposite  movements  are  to  be  distinguished, 
as  we  shall  see  later  on,  ‘‘descent”  and  “ascent.”  The 
first  only  unwinds  a roll  ready  prepared.  In  principle, 
it  might  be  accomplished  almost  instantaneously,  like 
releasing  a spring.  But  the  ascending  movement,  which 
corresponds  to  an  inner  work  of  ripening  or  creating, 
endures  essentially,  and  imposes  its  rhythm  on  the  first, 
wRich  is  inseparable  from  it. 

There  is  no  reason,  therefore,  why  a duration,  and  so  a 
form  of  existence  like  our  own,  should  not  be  attributed 
to  the  systems  that  science  isolates,  provided  such  sys- 
tems are  reintegrated  into  the  AMiole.  But  they  must 
be  so  reintegrated.  The  same  is  even  more  obviously 
true  of  the  objects  cut  out  by  our  perception.  The  dis- 
tinct outlines  which  we  see  in  an  object,  and  which  give 
it  its  individuality,  are  only  the  design  of  a certain  kind 
of  influence  that  we  might  exert  on  a certain  point  of  space : 
it  is  the  plan  of  our  eventual  actions  that  is  sent  back  to 
our  eyes,  as  though  by  a mirror,  when  we  see  the  surfaces 
and  edges  of  things.  Suppress  this  action,  and  with  it 
consequently  those  main  directions  which  by  perception 
are  traced  out  for  it  in  the  entanglement  of  the  real,  and 
the  individuality  of  the  body  is  re-absorbed  in  the  universal 
interaction  which,  without  doubt,  is  reality  itself. 


12 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


Now,  we  have  considered  material  objects  generally. 
Are  there  not  some  objects  privileged?  The  bodies  we 
perceive  are,  so  to  speak,  cut  out  of  the  stuff  of  nature 
by  our  perception,  and  the  scissors  follow,  in  some  way, 
the  marking  of  lines  along  which  action  might  be  taken. 
But  the  body  which  is  to  perform  this  action,  the  body 
which  marks  out  upon  matter  the  design  of  its  eventual 
actions  even  before  they  are  actual,  the  body  that  has 
only  to  point  its  sensory  organs  on  the  flow  of  the  real 
in  order  to  make  that  flow  crystallize  into  definite  forms 
and  thus  to  create  all  the  other  bodies — in  short,  the  living 
body — is  this  a body  as  others  are? 

Doubtless  it,  also,  consists  in  a portion  of  extension 
bound  up  with  the  rest  of  extension,  an  intimate  part  of 
the  Vfliole,  subject  to  the  same  physical  and  chemical 
laws  that  govern  any  and  every  portion  of  matter.  But, 
while  the  subdivision  of  matter  into  separate  bodies  is 
relative  to  our  perception,  while  the  building  up  of  closed- 
off  systems  of  material  points  is  relative  to  our  science, 
the  living  body  has  been  separated  and  closed  off  by  nature 
herself.  It  is  composed  of  unlike  parts  that  complete 
each  other.  It  performs  diverse  functions  that  involve 
each  other.  It  is  an  individual,  and  of  no  other  object, 
not  even  of  the  crystal,  can  this  be  said,  for  a crystal  has 
neither  difference  of  parts  nor  diversity  of  functions. 
No  doubt,  it  is  hard  to  decide,  even  in  the  organized  world, 
what  is  individual  and  what  is  not.  The  difficulty  is 
great,  even  in  the  animal  kingdom;  with  plants  it  is  almost 
insurmountable.  This  difficulty  is,  moreover,  due  to 
profound  causes,  on  which  we  shall  dwell  later.  We  shall 
see  that  individuality  admits  of  any  number  of  degrees, 
and  that  it  is  not  billy  realized  anywhere,  even  in  man. 
But  that  is  no  reason  for  thinking  it  is  not  a character- 
istic property  of  life.  The  biologist  who  proceeds  as  a 


I.] 


ORGANIZED  BODIES 


13 


geometrician  is  too  ready  to  take  advantage  here  of  our 
inability  to  give  a precise  and  general  definition  of  in- 
dividuality. A perfect  definition  applies  only  to  a com- 
pleted reality;  now,  vital  properties  are  never  entirely 
realized,  though  always  on  the  way  to  become  so;  they 
are  not  so  much  states  as  tendencies.  And  a tendency 
achieves  all  that  it  aims  at  only  if  it  is  not  thwarted  by 
another  tendency.  How,  then,  could  this  occur  in  the 
domain  of  life,  where,  as  we  shall  show,  the  interaction 
of  antagonistic  tendencies  is  always  implied?  In  particu- 
lar, it  may  be  said  of  individuality  that,  while  the  ten- 
dency to  individuate  is  everywhere  present  in  the  organized 
world,  it  is  everywhere  opposed  by  the  tendency  towards 
reproduction.  For  the  individuality  to  be  perfect,  it 
would  be  necessary  that  no  detached  part  of  the  organism 
could  live  separately.  But  then  reproduction  would  be 
impossible.  For  what  is  reproduction,  but  the  building 
up  of  a new  organism  with  a detached  fragment  of  the  old? 
Individuality  therefore  harbors  its  enemy  at  home.  Its 
very  need  of  perpetuating  itself  in  time  condemns  it  never 
to  be  complete  in  space.  The  biologist  must  take  due 
account  of  both  tendencies  in  every  instance,  and  it  is 
therefore  useless  to  ask  him  for  a definition  of  individuality 
that  shall  fit  all  cases  and  work  automatically. 

But  too  often  one  reasons  about  the  things  of  life  in 
the  same  way  as  about  the  conditions  of  crude  matter. 
Nowhere  is  the  confusion  so  evident  as  in  discussions  about 
individuality.  We  are  shown  the  stumps  of  a Lum- 
briculus,  each  regenerating  its  head  and  living  thence- 
forward as  an  independent  individual;  a hydra  whose 
pieces  become  so  many  fresh  hydras;  a sea-urchin’s  egg 
whose  fragments  develop  complete  embryos:  where  then, 
we  are  asked,  was  the  individuality  of  the  egg,  the  hydra, 
the  worm? — But,  because  there  are  several  individuals 


14 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


now,  it  does  not  follow  that  there  was  not  a single  in- 
dividual just  before.  No  doubt,  when  I have  seen  several 
drawers  fall  from  a chest,  I have  no  longer  the  right  to 
say  that  the  article  was  all  of  one  piece.  But  the  fact  is 
that  there  can  be  nothing  more  in  the  present  of  the  chest 
of  drawers  than  there  was  in  its  past,  and  if  it  is  made  up 
of  several  different  pieces  now,  it  was  so  from  the  date  of 
its  manufacture.  Generally  speaking,  unorganized  bodies, 
which  are  what  we  have  need  of  in  order  that  we  may  act, 
and  on  which  we  have  modelled  our  fashion  of  thinking, 
are  regulated  by  this  simple  law : the  'present  contains  noth- 
ing more  than  the  past,  and  what  is  found  in  the  effect  luas 
already  in  the  cause.  But  suppose  that  the  distinctive 
feature  of  the  organized  body  is  that  it  grows  and  changes 
without  ceasing,  as  indeed  the  most  superficial  observation 
testifies,  there  would  be  nothing  astonishing  in  the  fact 
that  it  was  one  in  the  first  instance,  and  afterwards  rnany. 
The  reproduction  of  unicellular  organisms  consists  in 
just  this — the  living  being  divides  into  two  halves,  of  which 
each  is  a complete  individual.  True,  in  the  more  complex 
animals,  nature  localizes  in  the  almost  independent  sexual 
cells  the  power  of  producing  the  whole  anew.  But  some- 
thing of  this  power  may  remain  diffused  in  the  rest  of  the 
organism,  as  the  facts  of  regeneration  prove,  and  it  is 
conceivable  that  in  certain  privileged  cases  the  faculty 
may  persist  integrally  in  a latent  condition  and  manifest 
itself  on  the  first  opportunity.  In  truth,  that  I may  have 
the  right  to  speak  of  indi\dduality,  it  is  not  necessary  that 
the  organism  should  be  without  the  power  to  divide  into 
fragments  that  are  able  to  live.  It  is  sufficient  that  it 
should  have  presented  a certain  systematization  of  parts 
before  the  division,  and  that  the  same  systematization 
tend  to  be  reproduced  in  each  separate  portion  afterwards. 
Now,  that  is  precisely  what  we  observe  in  the  organic 


I.] 


ORGANIZED  BODIES 


15 


world.  We  may  conclude,  then,  that  individuality  is 
never  perfect,  and  that  it  is  often  difficult,  sometimes 
impossible,  to  tell  what  is  an  individual,  and  what  is  not, 
but  that  life  nevertheless  manifests  a search  for  indi- 
viduality, as  if  it  strove  to  constitute  systems  naturally 
isolated,  naturally  closed. 

By  this  is  a living  being  distinguished  from  all  that 
our  perception  or  our  science  isolates  or  closes  artifici- 
ally. It  would  therefore  be  wrong  to  compare  it  to  an 
object.  Should  we  wish  to  find  a term  of  comparison  in 
the  inorganic  world,  it  is  not  to  a determinate  material 
object,  but  much  rather  to  the  totality  of  the  material 
universe  that  we  ought  to  compare  the  living  organism. 
It  is  true  that  the  comparison  would  not  be  worth  much, 
for  a living  being  is  observable,  whilst  the  whole  of  the 
universe  is  constructed  or  reconstructed  by  thought.  But 
at  least  our  attention  would  thus  have  been  called  to  the 
essential  character  of  organization.  Like  the  universe  as  a 
whole,  like  each  conscious  being  taken  separately,  the 
organism  which  lives  is  a thing  that  endures.  Its  past, 
in  its  entirety,  is  prolonged  into  its  present,  and  abides 
there,  actual  and  acting.  How  otherwise  could  we  under- 
stand that  it  passes  through  distinct  and  well-marked 
phases,  that  it  changes  its  age — in  short,  that  it  has  a 
history?  If  I consider  my  body  in  particular,  I find  that, 
like  my  consciousness,  it  matures  little  by  little  from  infancy 
to  old  age;  like  myself,  it  grows  old.  Indeed,  maturity 
and  old  age  are,  properly  speaking,  attributes  only  of  my 
body;  it  is  only  metaphorically  that  I apply  the  same  names 
to  the  corresponding  changes  of  my  conscious  self.  Now, 
if  I pass  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  scale  of  living 
beings,  from  one  of  the  most  to  one  of  the  least  differentia- 
ted, from  the  multicellular  organism  of  man  to  the  unicellu- 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


16  • 

lar  organism  of  the  Infusorian,  I find,  even  in  this  simple 
cell,  the  same  process  of  growing  old.  The  Infusorian 
is  exhausted  at  the  end  of  a certain  number  of  divisions, 
and  though  it  may  be  possible,  by  modifying  the  environ- 
ment, to  put  off  the  moment  when  a rejuvenation  by  con- 
jugation becomes  necessary,  this  cannot  be  indefinitely 
postponed.^  It  is  true  that  between  these  two  extreme 
cases,  in  which  the  organism  is  completely  individualized, 
there  might  be  found  a multitude  of  others  in  which  the 
individuality  is  less  well  marked,  and  in  which,  although 
there ''is  doubtless  an  ageing  somewhere,  one  cannot  say 
exactly  what  it  is  that  grows  old.  Once  more,  there  is  no 
universal  biological  law  which  applies  precisely  and  auto- 
matically to  every  living  thing.  There  are  only  directions 
in  which  life  throws  out  species  in  general.  Each  particular 
species,  in  the  very  act  by  which  it  is  constituted,  affirms 
its  independence,  follows  its  caprice,  deviates  more  or 
less  from  the  straight  hne,  sometimes  even  remounts  the 
slope  and  seems  to  turn  its  back  on  its  original  direction. 
It  is  easy  enough  to  argue  that  a tree  never  grows  old, 
since  the  tips  of  its  branches  are  always  equally  young, 
always  equally  capable  of  engendering  new  trees  by  budding. 
But  in  such  an  organism — which  is,  after  all,  a society 
rather  than  an  individual — something  ages,  if  only  the 
leaves  and  the  interior  of  the  trunk.  And  each  cell,  con- 
sidered separately,  evolves  in  a specific  way.  Wherever 
anything  lives,  there  is,  open  somewhere,  a register  in  which 
time  is  being  inscribed. 

This,  it  will  be  said,  is  only  a metaphor. — It  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  mechanism,  in  fact,  to  consider  as  meta- 
phorical every  expression  which  attributes  to  time  an 
effective  action  and  a reality  of  its  own.  In  vain  does 

1 Calkins,  Studies  on  the  Life  History  of  Protozoa  (Archiv  f.  Entwick- 
lungsmechanik,  vol.  xv.,  1903,  pp.  139-186). 


I.l 


INDIVIDUALITY  AND  AGE 


17 


immediate  experience  show  us  that  the  very  basis  of  our 
conscious  existence  is  memory,  that  is  to  say,  the  pro- 
longation of  the  past  into  the  present,  or,  in  a word,  dura- 
tion, acting  and  irreversible.  In  vain  does  reason  prove 
to  us  that  the  more  we  get  away  from  the  objects  cut  out 
and  the  systems  isolated  by  common  sense  and  by  science 
and  the  deeper  we  dig  beneath  them,  the  more  we  have 
to  do  with  a reality  which  changes  as  a whole  in  its  in- 
most states,  as  if  an  accumulative  memory  of  the  past 
made  it  impossible  to  go  back  again.  The  mechanistic 
instinct  of  the  mind  is  stronger  than  reason,  stronger  than 
immediate  experience.  The  metaphysician  that  we  each 
carry  unconsciously  within  us,  and  the  presence  of  which 
is  explained,  as  we  shall  see  later  on,  by  the  very  place  that 
man  occupies  amongst  the  living  beings,  has  its  fixed  re- 
quirements, its  ready-made  explanations,  its  irreducible 
propositions:  all  unite  in  denying  concrete  duration. 
Change  must  be  reducible  to  an  arrangement  or  rearrange- 
ment of  parts;  the  irreversibility  of  time  must  be  an  ap- 
pearance relative  to  our  ignorance;  the  impossibility  of 
turning  back  must  be  only  the  inability  of  man  to  put 
things  in  place  again.  So  growing  old  can  be  nothing  more 
than  the  gradual  gain  or  loss  of  certain  substances,  per- 
haps both  together.  Time  is  assumed  to  have  just  as 
much  reality  for  a living  being  as  for  an  hour-glass,  in 
which  the  top  part  empties  while  the  lower  fills,  and  all  goes 
where  it  was  before  when  you  turn  the  glass  upside  down. 

True,  biologists  are  not  agreed  on  what  is  gained  and 
what  is  lost  between  the  day  of  birth  and  the  day  of  death. 
There  are  those  who  hold  to  the  continual  growth  in  the 
volume  of  protoplasm  from  the  birth  of  the  cell  right  on 
to  its  death.'  More  probable  and  more  profound  is  the 

' Sedgwick  Minot,  On  Certain  Phenomena  of  Growing  Old  (Proc.  Amer. 
Assoc,  for  the  Advancement  of  Science,  39th  Meeting,  Salem,  1891,  pp. 
271-288). 


18 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


theory  according  to  which  the  diminution  bears  on  the 
quantity  of  nutritive  substance  contained  in  that  “inner 
environment’’  in  which  the  organism  is  being  renewed, 
and  the  increase  on  the  quantity  of  unexcreted  residual 
substances  which,  accumulating  in  the  body,  finally  “ crust 
it  over.”'  Must  we  however — with  an  eminent  bacteri- 
ologist— declare  any  explanation  of  growing  old  insufficient 
that  does  not  take  account  of  phagocytosis  ?“  We  do  not 
feel  qualified  to  settle  the  question.  But  the  fact  that  the 
two  theories  agree  in  affirming  the  constant  accumulation 
or  loss  of  a certain  kind  of  matter,  even  though  they  have 
little  in  common  as  to  what  is  gained  and  lost,  shows  pretty 
well  that  the  frame  of  the  explanation  has  been  furnished 
a 'priori.  We  shall  see  this  more  and  more  as  we  proceed 
with  our  study : it  is  not  easy,  in  thinking  of  time,  to  escape 
the  image  of  the  hour-glass. 

The  cause  of  growing  old  must  lie  deeper.  We  hold 
that  there  is  unbroken  continuity  between  the  evolution 
of  the  embryo  and  that  of  the  complete  organism.  The 
impetus  which  causes  a living  being  to  grow  larger,  to 
develop  and  to  age,  is  the  same  that  has  caused  it  to  pass 
through  the  phases  of  the  embryonic  life.  The  develop- 
ment of  the  embryo  is  a perpetual  change  of  form.  Any 
one  who  attempts  to  note  all  its  successive  aspects  becomes 
lost  in  an  infinity,  as  is  inevitable  in  dealing  with  a con- 
tinuum. Life  does  but  prolong  this  prenatal  evolution. 
The  proof  of  this  is  that  it  is  often  impossible  for  us  to  say 
whether  we  are  dealing  with  an  organism  growing  old  or 
with  an  embryo  continuing  to  evolve;  such  is  the  case, 

* Le  Dantec,  UIndividualite  et  Verreur  individualiste,  Paris,  1905, 
pp.  84  ff.  ^ 

2 Metchnikoff,  La  xJ^^erescence  s^ile  (Annee  hiologique,  iii.,  1897, 
pp.  249  ff.).  Cf.  by  the  same  author,  La  Nature  humaine,  Paris,  1903, 
pp.  312  ff. 


I.l 


INDIVIDUALITY  AND  AGE 


19 


for  example,  with  the  larvae  of  insects  and  Crustacea. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  an  organism  such  as  our  own,  crises 
like  puberty  or  the  menopause,  in  which  the  individual 
is  completely  transformed,  are  quite  comparable  to  changes 
in  the  course  of  larval  or  embryonic  life — yet  they  are  part 
and  parcel  of  the  process  of  our  aging.  Although  they  occur 
at  a definite  age  and  within  a time  that  may  be  quite  short, 
no  one  would  maintain  that  they  appear  then  ex  abrupto, 
from  without,  simply  because  a certain  age  is  reached,  just 
as  a legal  right  is  granted  to  us  on  our  one-and-twentieth 
birthday.  It  is  evident  that  a change  like  that  of  puberty 
is  in  course  of  preparation  at  every  instant  from  birth, 
and  even  before  birth,  and  that  the  aging  up  to  that  crisis 
consists,  in  part  at  least,  of  this  gradual  preparation. 
In  short,  what  is  properly  vital  in  growing  old  is  the  in- 
sensible, infinitely  graduated,  continuance  of  the  change 
of  form.  Now,  this  change  is  undoubtedly  accompanied 
by  phenomena  of  organic  destruction:  to  these,  and  to 
these  alone,  will  a mechanistic  explanation  of  aging  be 
confined.  It  will  note  the  facts  of  sclerosis,  the  gradual 
accumulation  of  residual  substances,  the  growing  hyper- 
trophy of  the  protoplasm  of  the  cell.  But  under  these 
visible  effects  an  inner  cause  lies  hidden.  The  evolution 
of  the  living  being,  like  that  of  the  embryo,  implies  a con- 
tinual recording  of  duration,  a persistence  of  the  past  in 
the  present,  and  so  an  appearance,  at  least,  of  organic 
mem.ory. 

The  present  state  of  an  unorganized  body  depends  ex- 
clusively on  what  happened  at  the  previous  instant;  and 
likewise  the  position  of  the  material  points  of  a system 
defined  and  isolated  by  science  is  determined  by  the  po- 
sition of  these  same  points  at  the  moment  immediately 
before.  In  other  words,  the  laws  that  govern  unorganized 
matter  are  expressible,  in  principle,  by  differential  equations 


20 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  which  time  (in  the  sense  in  which  the  mathematician 
takes  this  word)  would  play  the  role  of  independent  variable. 
Is  it  so  with  the  laws  of  life?  Does  the  state  of  a living 
body  find  its  complete  explanation  in  the  state  immediately 
before?  Yes,  if  it  is  agreed  a 'priori  to  liken  the  living  body 
to  other  bodies,  and  to  identify  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  argu- 
ment, with  the  artificial  systems  on  which  the  chemist, 
physicist,  and  astronomer  operate.  But  in  astronomy, 
physics,  and  chemistry  the  proposition  has  a perfectly 
definite  meaning:  it  signifies  that  certain  aspects  of  the 
present,  important  for  science,  are  calculable  as  functions 
of  the  immediate  past.  Nothing  of  the  sort  in  the  domain 
of  life.  Here  calculation  touches,  at  most,  certain  phe- 
nomena of  organic  destruction.  Organic  creation,  on  the 
contrary,  the  evolutionary  phenomena  which  properly 
constitute  life,  we  cannot  in  any  way  subject  to  a mathe- 
matical treatment.  It  will  be  said  that  this  impotence 
is  due  only  to  our  ignorance.  But  it  may  equally  well 
express  the  fact  that  the  present  moment  of  a living  body 
does  not  find  its  explanation  in  the  moment  immediately 
before,  that  all  the  past  of  the  organism  must  be  added  to 
that  moment,  its  heredity — in  fact,  the  whole  of  a very 
long  history.  In  the  second  of  these  two  hypotheses, 
not  in  the  first,  is  really  expressed  the  present  state  of 
the  biological  sciences,  as  well  as  their  direction.  As  for 
the  idea  that  the  living  body  might  be  treated  by  some 
superhuman  calculator  in  the  same  mathematical  way  as 
our  solar  system,  this  has  gradually  arisen  from  a meta- 
physic which  has  taken  a more  precise  form  since  the 
physical  discoveries  of  Galileo,  but  which,  as  w^e  shall 
show^,  was  always  the  natural  metaphysic  of  the  human 
mind.  Its  apparent  clearness,  our  impatient  desire  to 
find  it  true,  the  enthusiasm  with  wnich  so  many  excellent 
minds  accept  it  without  proof — all  the  seductions,  in  short, 


I.l 


INDIVIDUALITY  AND  AGE 


21 


that  it  exercises  on  our  thought,  should  put  us  on  our 
guard  against  it.  The  attraction  it  has  for  us  proves  well 
enough  that  it  gives  satisfaction  to  an  innate  inclination. 
But,  as  will  be  seen  further  on,  the  intellectual  tendencies 
innate  to-day,  which  life  must  have  created  in  the  course 
of  its  evolution,  are  not  at  all  meant  to  supply  us  with 
an  explanation  of  life:  they  have  something  else  to  do. 

Any  attempt  to  distinguish  between  an  artificial  and  a 
natural  system,  between  the  dead  and  the  living,  runs 
counter  to  this  tendency  at  once.  Thus  it  happens  that 
we  find  it  equally  difficult  to  imagine  that  the  organized 
has  duration  and  that  the  unorganized  has  not.  When 
we  say  that  the  state  of  an  artificial  system  depends  ex- 
clusively on  its  state  at  the  moment  before,  does  it  not 
seem  as  if  we  were  bringing  time  in,  as  if  the  system  had 
something  to  do  with  real  duration?  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  though  the  whole  of  the  past  goes  into  the  making 
of  the  living  being’s  present  moment,  does  not  organic 
memory  press  it  into  the  moment  immediately  before  the 
present,  so  that  the  moment  immediately  before  becomes 
the  sole  cause  of  the  present  one? — To  speak  thus  is  to 
ignore  the  cardinal  difference  between  concrete  time,  along 
which  a real  system  develops,  and  that  abstract  time  which 
enters  into  our  speculations  on  artificial  systems.  What 
does  it  mean,  to  say  that  the  state  of  an  artificial  system 
depends  on  what  it  was  at  the  moment  immediately  before? 
There  is  no  instant  immediately  before  another  instant; 
there  could  not  be,  any  more  than  there  could  be  one 
mathematical  point  touching  another.  The  instant  “im- 
mediately before”  is,  in  reality,  that  which  is  connected 
with  the  present  instant  by  the  interval  dt.  All  that  you 
mean  to  say,  therefore,  is  that  the  present  state  of  the 
system  is  defined  by  equations  into  which  differential 
coefficients  enter,  such  as  ds\dt,  dv\dt,  that  is  to  say,  at 


22 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


bottom,  present  velocities  and  present  accelerations.  You 
are  therefore  really  speaking  only  of  the  present — a present, 
it  is  true,  considered  along  with  its  tendency.  The  systems 
science  works  with  are,  in  fact,  in  an  instantaneous  present 
that  is  always  being  renewed;  such  systems  are  never  in 
that  real,  concrete  duration  in  which  the  past  remains 
bound  up  with  the  present.  When  the  mathematician 
calculates  the  future  state  of  a system  at  the  end  of  a time 
t,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  him  from  supposing  that  the 
universe  vanishes  from  this  moment  till  that,  and  suddenly 
reappears.  It  is  the  /-th  moment  only  that  counts — 
and  that  will  be  a mere  instant.  What  will  flow  on  in 
the  interval — ^that  is  to  say,  real  time — does  not  count, 
and  cannot  enter  into  the  calculation.  If  the  mathe- 
matician says  that  he  puts  himself  inside  this  interval, 
he  means  that  he  is  placing  himself  at  a certain  point, 
at  a particular  moment,  therefore  at  the  extremity  again 
of  a certain  time  t']  with  the  interval  up  to  T'  he  is  not 
concerned.  If  he  divides  the  interval  into  infinitely  small 
parts  by  considering  the  differential  dt,  he  thereby  expresses 
merely  the  fact  that  he  will  consider  accelerations  and 
velocities — ^that  is  to  say,  numbers  which  denote  ten- 
dencies and  enable  him  to  calculate  the  state  of  the  system 
at  a given  moment.  But  he  is  always  speaking  of  a given 
moment — a static  moment,  that  is — and  not  of  flowing 
time.  In  short,  the  world  the  mathematician  deals  with  is 
a world  that  dies  and  is  reborn  at  every  instant — the  world 
which  Descartes  was  thinking  of  when  he  spoke  of  continued 
creation.  But,  in  time  thus  conceived,  how  could  evolution, 
which  is  the  very  essence  of  life,  ever  take  place?  Evo- 
lution implies  a real  persistence  of  the  past  in  the  present, 
a duration  which  is,  as  it  were,  a hyphen,  a connecting 
link.  In  other  words,  to  know  a living  being  or  natural 
system  is  to  get  at  the  very  interval  of  duration,  while 


i.l  INDIVIDUALITY  AND  AGE  23 

the  knowledge  of  an  artificial  or  mathematical  system  applies 
only  to  the  extremity. 

Continuity  of  change,  preservation  of  the  past  in  the 
present,  real  duration — ^the  living  being  seems,  then,  to 
share  these  attributes  with  consciousness.  Can  we  go 
further  and  say  that  life,  like  conscious  activity,  is  in- 
vention, is  unceasing  creation? 

It  does  not  enter  into  our  plan  to  set  down  here  the 
proofs  of  transformism.  We  wish  only  to  explain  in  a 
word  or  two  why  we  shall  accept  it,  in  the  present  work, 
as  a sufficiently  exact  and  precise  expression  of  the  facts 
actually  known.  The  idea  of  transformism  is  already 
in  germ  in  the  natural  classification  of  organized  beings. 
The  naturalist,  in  fact,  brings  together  the  organisms  that 
are  like  each  other,  then  divides  the  group  into  sub-groups 
within  which  the  likeness  is  still  greater,  and  so  on:  all 
through  the  operation,  the  characters  of  the  group  appear 
as  general  themes  on  which  each  of  the  sub-groups  per- 
forms its  particular  variation.  Now,  such  is  just  the  re- 
lation we  find,  in  the  animal  and  in  the  vegetable  world 
between  the  generator  and  the  generated:  on  the  canvas 
which  the  ancestor  passes  on,  and  which  his  descendants 
possess  in  common,  each  puts  his  own  original  embroidery. 
True,  the  differences  between  the  descendant  and  the 
ancestor  are  slight,  and  it  may  be  asked  whether  the  same 
living  matter  presents  enough  plasticity  to  take  in  turn 
such  different  forms  as  those  of  a fish,  a reptile  and  a bird. 
But,  to  this  question,  observation  gives  a peremptory 
answer.  It  shows  that  up  to  a certain  period  in  its  de- 
velopment the  embryo  of  the  bird  is  hardly  distinguishable 
from  that  of  the  reptile,  and  that  the  individual  develops, 
throughout  the  embryonic  life  in  general,  a series  of  trans- 
formations comparable  to  those  through  which,  according 


24 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


rCHAP. 


to  the  theory  of  evolution,  one  species  passes  into  another. 
A single  cell,  the  result  of  the  combination  of  two  cells, 
male  and  female,  accomplishes  this  work  by  dividing. 
Every  day,  before  our  eyes,  the  highest  forms  of  life  are 
springing  from  a very  elementary  form.  Experience, 
then,  shows  that  the  most  complex  has  been  able  to  issue 
from  the  most  simple  by  way  of  evolution.  Now,  has  it 
arisen  so,  as  a matter  of  fact?  Paleontology,  in  spite 
of  the  insufficiency  of  its  evidence,  invites  us  to  believe 
it  has;  for,  where  it  makes  out  the  order  of  succession  of 
species  with  any  precision,  this  order  is  just  what  con- 
siderations drawn  from  embryogeny  and  comparative 
anatomy  would  lead  any  one  to  suppose,  and  each  new 
paleontological  discovery  brings  transformism  a new 
confirmation.  Thus,  the  proof  drawn  from  mere  ob- 
servation is  ever  being  strengthened,  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  experiment  is  removing  the  objections  one  by  one. 
The  recent  experiments  of  H.  de  Vries,  for  instance,  by 
showing  that  important  variations  can  be  produced  sud- 
denly and  transmitted  regularly,  have  overthrown  some  of 
the  greatest  difficulties  raised  by  the  theor}^  They  have 
enabled  us  greatly  to  shorten  the  time  biological  evolution 
seems  to  demand.  They  also  render  us  less  exacting 
toward  paleontology.  So  that,  all  things  considered,  the 
transformist  hypothesis  looks  more  and  more  like  a close 
approximation  to  the  truth.  It  is  not  rigorously  de- 
monstrable; but,  failing  the  certainty  of  theoretical  or 
experimental  demonstration,  there  is  a probability  which 
is  continually  growing,  due  to  evidence  which,  while  com- 
ing short  of  direct  proof,  seems  to  point  persistently  in  its 
direction:  such  is  the  kind  of  probability  that  the  theory 
of  transformism  offers. 

Let  us  admit,  however,  that  transformism  may  be 
wrong.  Let  us  suppose  that  species  are  proved,  by  in- 


I.l 


TRANSFORMISM 


25 


ference  or  by  experiment,  to  have  arisen  by  a discontinuous 
process,  of  which  to-day  we  have  no  idea.  Would  the 
doctrine  be  affected  in  so  far  as  it  has  a special  interest 
or  importance  for  us?  Classification  would  probably 
remain,  in  its  broad  lines.  The  actual  data  of  embryology 
would  also  remain.  The  correspondence  between  com- 
parative embryogeny  and  comparative  anatomy  would 
remain  too.  Therefore  biology  could  and  would  continue 
to  establish  between  living  forms  the  same  relations  and 
the  same  kinship  as  transformism  supposes  to-day.  It 
would  be,  it  is  true,  an  ideal  kinship,  and  no  longer  a 
material  affiliation.  But,  as  the  actual  data  of  paleontology 
would  also  remain,  we  should  still  have  to  admit  that  it  is 
successively,  not  simultaneously,  that  the  forms  between 
which  we  find  an  ideal  kinship  have  appeared.  Now,  the 
evolutionist  theory,  so  far  as  it  has  any  importance  for 
philosophy,  requires  no  more.  It  consists  above  all  in 
establishing  relations  of  ideal  kinship,  and  in  maintaining 
that  wherever  there  is  this  relation  of,  so  to  speak,  logical 
affiliation  between  forms,  there  is  also  a relation  of  chrono- 
logical succession  between  the  species  in  which  these  forms 
are  materialized.  Both ' arguments  would  hold  in  any 
case.  And  hence,  an  evolution  somewhere  would  still 
have  to  be  supposed,  whether  in  a creative  Thought  in 
which  the  ideas  of  the  different  species  are  generated  by 
each  other  exactly  as  transformism  holds  that  species  them- 
selves are  generated  on  the  earth ; or  in  a plan  of  vital  organi- 
zation immanent  in  nature,  which  gradually  wmrks  itself  out, 
in  which  the  relations  of  logical  and  chronological  affiliation 
between  pure  forms  are  just  those  which  transformism 
presents  as  relations  of  real  affiliation  between  living 
individuals;  or,  finally,  in  some  unknown  cause  of  life, 
which  develops  its  effects  as  if  they  generated  one  another. 
Evolution  would  then  simply  have  been  transposed,  made 


26 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  pass  from  the  visible  to  the  invisible.  Almost  all  that 
transformism  tells  us  to-day  would  be  preserved,  open  to 
interpretation  in  another  way.  Will  it  not,  therefore, 
be  better  to  stick  to  the  letter  of  transformism  as  almost 
all  scientists  profess  it?  Apart  from  the  question  to  what 
extent  the  theory  of  evolution  describes  the  facts  and  to 
what  extent  it  symbolizes  them,  there  is  nothing  in  it 
that  is  irreconcilable  with  the  doctrines  it  has  claimed  to 
replace,  even  with  that  of  special  creations,  to  which  it  is 
usually  opposed.  For  this  reason  we  think  the  language 
of  transformism  forces  itself  now  upon  all  philosophy,  as 
the  dogmatic  affirmation  of  transformism  forces  itself  upon 
science. 

But  then,  we  must  no  longer  speak  of  life  in  general 
as  an  abstraction,  or  as  a mere  heading  under  which  all 
living  beings  are  inscribed.  At  a certain  moment,  in 
certain  points  of  space,  a visible  current  has  taken  rise; 
this  current  of  life,  traversing  the  bodies  it  has  organized 
one  after  another,  passing  from  generation  to  generation, 
has  become  divided  amongst  species  and  distributed 
amongst  individuals  without  losing  anything  of  its  force, 
rather  intensifying  in  proportion  to  its  advance.  It  is 
well  known  that,  on  the  theory  of  the  “continuity  of  the 
germ-plasm,’’  maintained  by  Weismann,  the  sexual  ele- 
ments of  the  generating  organism  pass  on  their  properties 
directly  to  the  sexual  elements  of  the  organism  engendered. 
In  this  extreme  form,  the  theory  has  seemed  debatable, 
for  it  is  only  in  exceptional  cases  that  there  are  any  signs 
of  sexual  glands  at  the  time  of  segmentation  of  the  ferti- 
lized egg.  But,  though  the  cells  that  engender  the  sexual 
elements  do  not  generally  appear  at  the  beginning  of  the 
embryonic  life,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  they  are  always 
formed  out  of  those  tissues  of  the  embryo  which  have  not 
undergone  any  particular  functional  differentiation,  and 


I.l 


TRANSFORMISM 


27 


whose  cells  are  made  of  unmodified  protoplasm.  ‘ In  other 
words,  the  genetic  power  of  the  fertilized  ovum  weakens, 
the  more  it  is  spread  over  the  growing  mass  of  the  tissues 
of  the  embryo;  but,  while  it  is  being  thus  diluted,  it  is 
concentrating  anew  something  of  itself  on  a certain  special 
point,  to  wit,  the  cells,  from  which  the  ova  or  spermatozoa 
will  develop.  It  might  therefore  be  said  that,  though 
the  germ-plasm  is  not  continuous,  there  is  at  least  con- 
tinuity of  genetic  energy,  this  energy  being  expended  only 
at  certain  instants,  for  just  enough  time  to  give  the  requisite 
impulsion  to  the  embryonic  life,  and  being  recouped  as 
soon  as  possible  in  new  sexual  elements,  in  which,  again, 
it  bides  its  time.  Regarded  from  this  point  of  view,  life 
is  like  a current  passing  from  germ  to  germ  through  the 
medium  of  a developed  organism.  It  is  as  if  the  organism 
itself  were  only  an  excrescence,  a bud  caused  to  sprout  by 
the  former  germ  endeavoring  to  continue  itself  in  a new  germ. 
The  essential  thing  is  the  continuous  progress  indefinitely 
pursued,  an  invisible  progress,  on  which  each  visible  organ- 
ism rides  during  the  short  interval  of  time  given  it  to  live. 

Now,  the  more  we  fix  our  attention  on  this  continuity 
of  life,  the  more  we  see  that  organic  evolution  resembles 
the  evolution  of  a consciousness,  in  which  the  past  presses 
against  the  present  and  causes  the  upspringing  of  a new 
form  of  consciousness,  incommensurable  with  its  ante- 
cedents. That  the  appearance  of  a vegetable  or  animal 
species  is  due  to  specific  causes,  nobody  will  gainsay.  But 
this  can  only  mean  that  if,  after  the  fact,  we  could  know 
these  causes  in  detail,  we  could  explain  by  them  the  form 
that  has  been  produced ; foreseeing  the  form  is  out  of  the 
question.  2 It  may  perhaps  be  said  that  the  form  could 

1 Roule,  L’Embryologie  generate,  Paris,  1893,  p.  319. 

2 The  irreversibility  of  the  series  of  living  beings  has  been  well  set 
forth  by  Baldwin  (Development  and  Evolution,  New  York,  1902;  in 
particular  p.  327). 


28 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


be  foreseen  if  we  could  know,  in  all  their  details,  the  con- 
ditions under  which  it  will  be  produced.  But  these  con- 
ditions are  built  up  into  it  and  are  part  and  parcel  of  its 
being;  they  are  peculiar  to  that  phase  of  its  history  in 
which  life  finds  itself  at  the  moment  of  producing  the  form : 
how  could  we  know  beforehand  a situation  that  is  unique 
of  its  kind,  that  has  never  yet  occurred  and  will  never  occur 
again?  Of  the  future,  only  that  is  foreseen  which  is  like 
the  past  or  can  be  made  up  again  with  elements  like  those 
of  the  past.  Such  is  the  case  with  astronomical,  physical 
and  chemical  facts,  with  all  facts  which  form  part  of  a 
system  in  which  elements  supposed  to  be  unchanging  are 
merely  put  together,  in  which  the  only  changes  are  changes 
of  position,  in  which  there  is  no  theoretical  absurdity  in 
imagining  that  things  are  restored  to  their  place;  in  which, 
consequently,  the  same  total  phenomenon,  or  at  least  the 
same  elementary  phenomena,  can  be  repeated.  But  an 
original  situation,  which  imparts  something  of  its  own 
originality  to  its  elements,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  partial 
views  that  are  taken  of  it,  how  can  such  a situation  be 
pictured  as  given  before  it  is  actually  produced  All  that 
can  be  said  is  that,  once  produced,  it  will  be  explained  by 
the  elements  that  analysis  will  then  carve  out  of  it.  Now, 
what  is  true  of  the  production  of  a new  species  is  also  true 
of  the  production  of  a new  individual,  and,  more  generally, 
of  any  moment  of  any  living  form.  For,  though  the 
variation  must  reach  a certain  importance  and  a certain 
generality  in  order  to  give  rise  to  a new  species,  it  is  being 
produced  every  moment,  continuously  and  insensibly, 
in  every  living  being.  And  it  is  evident  that  even  the  sudden 
“mutations”  which  we  now  hear  of  are  possible  only  if 
a process  of  incubation,  or  rather  of  maturing,  is  going 

1 We  have  dwelt  on  this  point  and  tried  to  make  it  clear  in  the  Essai 
sur  les  domiees  immediates  de  la  conscience,  pp.  140-151. 


1.1  BIOLOGY,  PHYSICS  AND  CHEMISTRY  29 


on  throughout  a series  of  generations  that  do  not  seem  to 
change.  In  this  sense  it  might  be  said  of  life,  as  of  con- 
sciousness, that  at  every  moment  it  is  creating  something.  ^ 

But  against  this  idea  of  the  absolute  originality  and  un- 
foreseeability of  forms  our  whole  intellect  rises  in  revolt. 
The  essential  function  of  our  intellect,  as  the  evolution 
of  life  has  fashioned  it,  is  to  be  a light  for  our  conduct, 
to  make  ready  for  our  action  on  things,  to  foresee,  for 
a given  situation,  the  events,  favorable  or  unfavorable, 
which  may  follow  thereupon.  Intellect  therefore  in- 
stinctively selects  in  a given  situation  whatever  is  like 
something  already  known;  it  seeks  this  out,  in  order 
that  it  may  apply  its  principle  that  “ like  produces  like. 
In  just  this  does  the  prevision  of  the  future  by  common 
sense  consist.  Science  carries  this  faculty  to  the  highest 
possible  degree  of  exactitude  and  precision,  but  does  not 
alter  its  essential  character.  Like  ordinary  knowledge, 
in  dealing  with  things  science  is  concerned  only  with  the 
aspect  of  repetition.  Though  the  whole  be  original,  science 
will  always  manage  to  analyze  it  into  elements  or  aspects 
which  are  approximately  a reproduction  of  the  past. 
Science  can  work  only  on  what  is  supposed  to  repeat  it- 
self— ^that  is  to  say,  on  what  is  withdrawn,  by  hypothesis, 
from  the  action  of  real  time.  Anything  that  is  irreducible 

* In  his  fine  work  on  Geniiis  in  Art  (Le  Genie  dans  Vart),  M.  Seailles 
develops  this  twofold  thesis,  that  art  is  a continuation  of  nature  and 
that  life  is  creation.  We  should  willingly  accept  the  second  formula; 
but  by  creation  must  we  understand,  as  the  author  does,  a synthesis  of 
elements?  Where  the  elements  pre-exist,  the  synthesis  that  will  be 
made  is  virtually  given,  being  only  one  of  the  possible  arrangements. 
This  arrangement  a superhuman  intellect  could  have  perceived  in  ad- 
vance among  all  the  possible  ones  that  surround  it.  We  hold,  on  the 
contrary,  that  in  the  domain  of  life  the  elements  have  no  real  and  sepa- 
rate existence.  They  are  manifold  mental  views  of  an  indivisible 
process.  And  for  that  reason  there  is  radical  contingency  in  progress, 
incommensurability  between  what  goes  before  and  what  follows — in 
short,  duration. 


30 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


and  irreversible  in  the  successive  moments  of  a history 
eludes  science.  To  get  a notion  of  this  irreducibility  and 
irreversibility,  we  must  break  with  scientific  habits  which 
are  adapted  to  the  fundamental  requirements  of  thought, 
we  must  do  violence  to  the  mind,  go  counter  to  the  natural 
bent  of  the  intellect.  But  that  is  just  the  function  of 
philosophy. 

In  vain,  therefore,  does  life  evolve  before  our  eyes  as  a 
continuous  creation  of  unforeseeable  form : the  idea  always 
persists  that  form,  unforeseeability  and  continuity  are 
mere'  appearance — ^the  outward  reflection  of  our  own  ig- 
norance. \Vhat  is  presented  to  the  senses  as  a continuous 
history  would  break  up,  we  are  told,  into  a series  of  suc- 
cessive states.  ‘AVhat  gives  you  the  impression  of  an 
original  state  resolves,  upon  analysis,  into  elementary 
facts,  each  of  which  is  the  repetition  of  a fact  already 
known.  What  you  call  an  unforeseeable  form  is  only  a 
new  arrangement  of  old  elements.  The  elementary  causes, 
which  in  their  totality  have  determined  this  arrangement, 
are  themselves  old  causes  repeated  in  a new^  order.  Know- 
ledge of  the  elements  and  of  the  elementary  causes  would 
have  made  it  possible  to  foretell  the  living  form  which  is 
their  sum  and  their  resultant.  WTien  we  have  resolved 
the  biological  aspect  of  phenomena  into  physico-chemical 
factors,  we  will  leap,  if  necessary,  over  physics  and  chemis- 
try themselves ; we  will  go  from  masses  to  molecules,  from 
molecules  to  atoms,  from  atoms  to  corpuscles:  we  must 
indeed  at  last  come  to  something  that  can  be  treated  as  a 
kind  of  solar  system,  astronomically.  If  you  deny  it, 
you  oppose  the  very  principle  of  scientific  mechanism,  and 
you  arbitrarily  affirm  that  living  matter  is  not  made  of 
the  same  elements  as  other  matter.  ” — We  reply  that  we 
do  not  question  the  fundamental  identity  of  inert  matter 
and  organized  matter.  The  only  question  is  whether  the 


i.i  BIOLOGY,  PHYSICS  AND  CHEMISTRY  31 


natural  systems  which  we  call  living  beings  must  be  as- 
similated to  the  artificial  systems  that  science  cuts  out 
within  inert  matter,  or  whether  they  must  not  rather  be 
compared  to  that  natural  system  which  is  the  whole  of 
the  universe.  That  life  is  a kind  of  mechanism  I cordially 
agree.  But  is  it  the  mechanism  of  parts  artificially  isolated 
within  the  whole  of  the  universe,  or  is  it  the  mechanism 
of  the  real  whole?  The  real  whole  might  well  be,  we  con- 
ceive, an  indivisible  continuity.  The  systems  we  cut  out 
within  it  would,  properly  speaking,  not  then  be  parts  at 
all;  they  would  be  partial  views  of  the  whole.  And,  with 
these  partial  views  put  end  to  end,  you  will  not  make 
even  a beginning  of  the  reconstruction  of  the  whole,  any 
more  than,  by  multiplying  photographs  of  an  object  in 
a thousand  different  aspects,  you  will  reproduce  the  object 
itself.  So  of  life  and  of  the  physico-chemical  phenomena 
to  which  you  endeavor  to  reduce  it.  Analysis  will  un- 
doubtedly resolve  the  process  of  organic  creation  into  an 
ever-growing  number  of  physico-chemical  phenomena, 
and  chemists  and  physicists  will  have  to  do,  of  course, 
with  nothing  but  these.  But  it  does  not  follow  that 
chemistry  and  physics  will  ever  give  us  the  key  to  life. 

A very  small  element  of  a curve  is  very  near  being  a 
straight  line.  And  the  smaller  it  is,  the  nearer.  In 
the  limit,  it  may  be  termed  a part  of  the  curve  or  a part 
of  the  straight  line,  as  you  please,  for  in  each  of  its  points 
a curve  coincides  with  its  tangent.  So  likewise  “vitality” 
is  tangent,  at  any  and  every  point,  to  physical  and  chemical 
forces;  but  such  points  are,  as  a fact,  only  views  taken 
by  a mind  which  imagines  stops  at  various  moments 
of  the  movement  that  generates  the  curve.  In  reality, 
life  is  no  more  made  of  physico-chemical  elements  than  a 
curve  is  composed  of  straight  lines. 

In  a general  way,  the  most  radical  progress  a science 


32 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


can  achieve  is  the  working  of  the  completed  results  into 
a new  scheme  of  the  whole,  by  relation  to  which  they 
become  instantaneous  and  motionless  views  taken  at  in- 
tervals along  the  continuity  of  a movement.  Such,  for 
example,  is  the  relation  of  modern  to  ancient  geometry. 
The  latter,  purely  static,  worked  with  figures  drawn  once 
for  all;  the  former  studies  the  varying  of  a function — 
that  is,  the  continuous  movement  by  which  the  figure 
is  described.  No  doubt,  for  greater  strictness,  all  con- 
siderations of  motion  may  be  eliminated  from  mathe- 
matical processes;  but  the  introduction  of  motion  into  the 
genesis  of  figures  is  nevertheless  the  origin  of  modern 
mathematics.  We  believe  that  if  biology  could  ever  get 
as  close  to  its  object  as  mathematics  does  to  its  owm,  it 
would  become,  to  the  physics  and  chemistry  of  organized 
bodies,  what  the  mathematics  of  the  moderns  has  proved 
to  be  in  relation  to  ancient  geometry.  The  wholly  super- 
ficial displacements  of  masses  and  molecules  studied  in 
physics  and  chemistry  would  become,  by  relation  to  that 
inner  vital  movement  (which  is  transformation  and  not 
translation)  what  the  position  of  a moving  object  is  to  the 
movement  of  that  object  in  space.  And,  so  far  as  we  can 
see,  the  procedure  by  which  we  should  then  pass  from  the 
definition  of  a certain  vital  action  to  the  system  of  physico- 
chemical facts  which  it  implies  would  be  like  passing  from 
the  function  to  its  derivative,  from  the  equation  of  the 
curve  {i.e.  the  law  of  the  continuous  movement  by  which 
the  curve  is  generated)  to  the  equation  of  the  tangent 
giving  its  instantaneous  direction.  Such  a science  would 
be  a mechanics  of  transformation,  of  which  our  mechanics 
of  translation  would  become  a particular  case,  a simpli- 
fication, a projection  on  the  plane  of  pure  quantity.  And 
just  as  an  infinity  of  functions  have  the  same  differential, 
these  functions  differing  from  each  other  by  a constant. 


i.l  BIOLOGY,  PHYSICS  AND  CHEMISTRY  33 


so  perhaps  the  integration  of  the  physico-chemical  ele- 
ments of  properly  vital  action  might  determine  that  action 
only  in  part — a part  would  be  left  to  indetermination. 
But  such  an  integration  can  be  no  more  than  dreamed  of; 
we  do  not  pretend  that  the  dream  will  ever  be  realized. 
We  are  only  trying,  by  carrying  a certain  comparison  as 
far  as  possible,  to  show^  up  to  what  point  our  theory  goes 
along  with  pure  mechanism,  and  where  they  part  company. 

Imitation  of  the  living  by  the  unorganized  may,  how- 
ever, go  a good  way.  Not  only  does  chemistry  make 
organic  syntheses,  but  we  have  succeeded  in  reproducing 
artificially  the  external  appearance  of  certain  facts  of 
organization,  such  as  indirect  cell-division  and  proto- 
plasmic circulation.  It  is  well  known  that  the  protoplasm 
of  the  cell  effects  various  movements  within  its  envelope; 
on  the  other  hand,  indirect  cell-division  is  the  outcome 
of  very  complex  operations,  some  involving  the  nucleus 
and  others  the  cytoplasm.  These  latter  commence  by 
the  doubling  of  the  centrosome,  a small  spherical  body 
alongside  the  nucleus.  The  two  centrosomes  thus  ob- 
tained draw  apart,  attract  the  broken  and  doubled  ends 
of  the  filament  of  which  the  original  nucleus  mainly  con- 
sisted, and  join  them  to  form  two  fresh  nuclei  about  which 
the  two  new  cells  are  constructed  which  will  succeed  the 
first.  Now,  in  their  broad  lines  and  in  their  external 
appearance,  some  at  least  of  these  operations  have  been 
successfully  imitated.  If  some  sugar  or  table  salt  is 
pulverized  and  some  very  old  oil  is  added,  and  a drop  of 
the  mixture  is  observed  under  the  microscope,  a froth  of 
alveolar  structure  is  seen  whose  configuration  is  like  that 
of  protoplasm,  according  to  certain  theories,  and  in  which 
movements  take  place  which  are  decidedly  like  those  of 
protoplasmic  circulation.*  If,  in  a froth  of  the  same  kind, 

1 Blitschli,  UntersiLchungen  uber  mikroskopische  Schdume  und  das  Pro- 
toplasma, Leipzig,  1892,  First  Part. 


34 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  air  is  extracted  from  an  alveolus,  a cone  of  attraction 
is  seen  to  form,  like  those  about  the  centrosomes  which 
result  in  the  division  of  the  nucleus.^  Even  the  external 
motions  of  a unicellular  organism — of  an  amoeba,  at  any 
rate — are  sometimes  explained  mechanically.  The  dis- 
placements of  an  amoeba  in  a drop  of  water  would  be 
comparable  to  the  motion  to  and  fro  of  a grain  of  dust 
in  a draughty  room.  Its  mass  is  all  the  time  absorbing 
certain  soluble  matters  contained  in  the  surrounding 
water,  and  giving  back  to  it  certain  others;  these  con- 
tinual exchanges,  like  those  between  two  vessels  separated 
by  a porous  partition,  would  create  an  everchanging 
vortex  around  the  little  organism.  As  for  the  temporary 
prolongations  or  pseudopodia  which  the  amoeba  seems 
to  make,  they  would  be  not  so  much  given  out  by  it  as 
attracted  from  it  by  a kind  of  inhalation  or  suction  of  the 
surrounding  medium.*  In  the  same  way  we  may  perhaps 
come  to  explain  the  more  complex  movements  which  the 
Infusorian  makes  with  its  vibratory  cilia,  which,  more- 
over, are  probably  only  fixed  pseudopodia. 

But  scientists  are  far  from  agreed  on  the  value  of  ex- 
planations and  schemas  of  this  sort.  Chemists  have 
pointed  out  that  even  in  the  organic — not  to  go  so  far  as 
the  organized — science  has  reconstructed  hitherto  nothing 
but  waste  products  of  vital  activity;  the  peculiarly  active 
plastic  substances  obstinately  defy  synthesis.  One  of 
the  most  notable  naturalists  of  our  time  has  insisted  on 
the  opposition  of  two  orders  of  phenomena  observed  in 
living  tissues,  anagenesis  and  katagenesis.  The  role  of 
the  anagenetic  energies  is  to  raise  the  inferior  energies 

* Rhumbler,  Versuch  einer  mechanischen  Erkldrung  der  indirekten 
Zell-  und  Kemteilung  {Roux’s  Archiv,  1896). 

2 Berthold,  Studies,  uher  Protoplasmamechanik,  Leipzig,  1886,  p.  102. 
Cf.  the  explanation  proposed  by  Le  Dantec,  Theorie  nouvelle  de  la  vie, 
Paris,  1896,  p.  60. 


i.l  BIOLOGY,  PHYSICS  AND  CHEMISTRY  35 


to  their  own  level  by  assimilating  inorganic  substances. 
They  construct  the  tissues.  On  the  other  hand,  the  actual 
functioning  of  life  (excepting,  of  course,  assimilation, 
growth,  and  reproduction)  is  of  the  katagenetic  order, 
exhibiting  the  fall,  not  the  rise,  of  energy.  It  is  only  with 
these  facts  of  katagenetic  order  that  physico-chemistry 
deals — ^that  is,  in  short,  with  the  dead  and  not  with  the 
living.  1 The  other  kind  of  facts  certainly  seem  to  defy 
physico-chemical  analysis,  even  if  they  are  not  anagenetic 
in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word.  As  for  the  artificial 
imitation  of  the  outward  appearance  of  protoplasm,  should 
a real  theoretic  importance  be  attached  to  this  when  the 
question  of  the  physical  framework  of  protoplasm  is  not 
yet  settled?  We  are  still  further  from  compounding  pro- 
toplasm chemically.  Finally,  a physico-chemical  ex- 
planation of  the  motions  of  the  amoeba,  and  a fortiori  of 
the  behavior  of  the  Infusoria,  seems  impossible  to  many 
of  those  who  have  closely  observed  these  rudimentary 
organisms.  Even  in  these  humblest  manifestations  of 
life  they  discover  traces  of  an  effective  psychological  activ- 
ity. * But  instructive  above  all  is  the  fact  that  the  ten- 
dency to  explain  ever3rthing  by  physics  and  chemistry  is 
discouraged  rather  than  strengthened  by  deep  study  of 
histological  phenomena.  Such  is  the  conclusion  of  the 
truly  admirable  book  which  the  histologist  E.  B.  Wilson 

* Cope,  The  Primary  Factors  of  Organic  Evolution,  Chicago,  1896,  pp. 
475-484. 

* Maupas,  “Etude  des  infusoires  cilies”  {Arch,  de  zoologie  experi- 
mentale,  1883,  pp.  47,  491,  518,  549,  in  particular).  P.  Vignon,  Re- 
cherches  de  cytologie  generate  sur  les  epitheliums,  Paris,  1902,  p.  655.  A 
profound  study  of  the  motions  of  the  Infusoria  and  a very  penetrating 
criticism  of  the  idea  of  tropism  have  been  made  recently  by  Jennings 
{Contributions  to  the  Study  of  the  Behavior  of  Lower  Organisms,  Wash- 
ington, 1904).  The  “type  of  behavior’’  of  these  lower  organisms,  as 
Jennings  defines  it  (pp.  237-252),  is  unquestionably  of  the  psychological 
order. 


36 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


has  devoted  to  the  development  of  the  cell:  “The  study 
of  the  cell  has,  on  the  whole,  seemed  to  widen  rather  than 
to  narrow  the  enormous  gap  that  separates  even  the  lowest 
forms  of  life  from  the  inorganic  world. 

To  sum  up,  those  who  are  concerned  only  with  the 
functional  activity  of  the  living  being  are  inclined  to  be- 
lieve that  physics  and  chemistry  will  give  us  the  key  to 
biological  processes.*  They  have  chiefly  to  do,  as  a fact, 
with  phenomena  that  are  repeated  continually  in  the  living 
being,  as  in  a chemical  retort.  This  explains,  in  some 
measure,  the  mechanistic  tendencies  of  physiology.  On 
the  contrary,  those  whose  attention  is  concentrated  on 
the  minute  structure  of  living  tissues,  on  their  genesis 
and  evolution,  histologists  and  embryogenists  on  the  one 
hand,  naturalists  on  the  other,  are  interested  in  the  retort 
itself,  not  merely  in  its  contents.  They  find  that  this 
retort  creates  its  own  form  through  a unique  series  of  acts 
that  really  constitute  a history.  Thus,  histologists,  em- 
bryogenists, and  naturalists  believe  far  less  readily  than 
physiologists  in  the  physico-chemical  character  of  vital 
actions. 

The  fact  is,  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  these  two  theories, 
neither  that  which  affirms  nor  that  which  denies  the  possi- 
bility of  chemically  producing  an  elementary  organism, 
can  claim  the  authority  of  experiment.  They  are  both 
unverifiable,  the  former  because  science  has  not  yet  ad- 
vanced a step  toward  the  chemical  synthesis  of  a living 
substance,  the  second  because  there  is  no  conceivable  way 
of  proving  experimentally  the  impossibility  of  a fact.  But 
we  have  set  forth  the  theoretical  reasons  which  prevent 
us  from  likening  the  living  being,  a system  closed  off  by 
nature,  to  the  svstems  which  our  science  isolates.  These 

* E.  B.  Wilson,  The  Cell  in  Development  and  Inheritance,  New  York, 
1897,  p.  330. 

2 Dastre,  La  Vie  et  la  mort,  p.  43. 


I.l 


RADICAL  MECHANISM 


37 


reasons  have  less  force,  we  acknowledge,  in  the  case  of  a 
rudimentary  organism  like  the  amoeba,  which  hardly 
evolves  at  all.  But  they  acquire  more  when  we  consider 
a complex  organism  which  goes  through  a regular  cycle 
of  transformations.  The  more  duration  marks  the  living 
being  with  its  imprint,  the  more  obviously  the  organism 
differs  from  a mere  mechanism,  over  which  duration  glides 
without  penetrating.  And  the  demonstration  has  most 
force  when  it  applies  to  the  evolution  of  life  as  a whole, 
from  its  humblest  origins  to  its  highest  forms,  inasmuch  as 
this  evolution  constitutes,  through  the  unity  and  con- 
tinuity of  the  animated  matter  which  supports  it,  a single 
indivisible  history.  Thus  viewed,  the  evolutionist  hypothe- 
sis does  not  seem  so  closely  akin  to  the  mechanistic  con- 
ception of  life  as  it  is  generally  supposed  to  be.  Of  this 
mechanistic  conception  we  do  not  claim,  of  course,  to 
furnish  a mathematical  and  final  refutation.  But  the 
refutation  which  we  draw  from  the  consideration  of  real 
time,  and  which  is,  in  our  opinion,  the  only  refutation 
possible,  becomes  the  more  rigorous  and  cogent  the  more 
frankly  the  evolutionist  hypothesis  is  assumed.  We  must 
dwell  a good  deal  more  on  this  point.  But  let  us  first  show 
more  clearly  the  notion  of  life  to  which  we  are  leading  up. 

The  mechanistic  explanations,  we  said,  hold  good  for 
the  systems  that  our  thought  artificially  detaches  from  the 
whole.  But  of  the  whole  itself  and  of  the  systems  which, 
within  this  whole,  seem  to  take  after  it,  we  cannot  admit 
a 'priori  that  they  are  mechanically  explicable,  for  then 
time  would  be  useless,  and  even  unreal.  The  essence  of 
mechanical  explanation,  in  fact,  is  to  regard  the  future 
and  the  past  as  calculable  functions  of  the  present,  and  thus 
to  claim  that  all  is  give'ri.  On  this  hypothesis,  past, 
present  and  future  would  be  open  at  a glance  to  a super- 
human intellect  capable  of  making  the  calculation.  Indeed, 


38 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  scientists  who  have  believed  in  the  universality  and 
perfect  objectivity  of  mechanical  explanations  have, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  acted  on  a hypothesis  of 
this  kind.  Laplace  formulated  it  with  the  greatest  pre- 
cision: “An  intellect  wRich  at  a given  instant  knew  all 
the  forces  with  which  nature  is  animated,  and  the  respective 
situations  of  the  beings  that  compose  nature — supposing 
the  said  intellect  were  vast  enough  to  subject  these  data 
to  analysis — would  embrace  in  the  same  formula  the  motions 
of  the  greatest  bodies  in  the  universe  and  those  of  the 
slightest  atom:  nothing  would  be  uncertain  for  it,  and 
the  future,  like  the  past,  would  be  present  to  its  eyes.’'» 
And  Du  Bois-Reymond : “We  can  imagine  the  knowledge 
of  nature  arrived  at  a point  where  the  universal  process 
of  the  w’orld  might  be  represented  by  a single  mathematical 
formula,  by  one  immense  system  of  simultaneous  differ- 
ential equations,  from  which  could  be  deduced,  for  each 
moment,  the  position,  direction,  and  velocity  of  every 
atom  of  the  world.  Huxley  has  expressed  the  same  idea 
in  a more  concrete  form:  “If  the  fundamental  proposition 
of  evolution  is  true,  that  the  entire  world,  living  and  not 
living,  is  the  result  of  the  mutual  interaction,  according 
to  definite  laws,  of  the  forces  possessed  by  the  molecules 
of  which  the  primitive  nebulosity  of  the  universe  was 
composed,  it  is  no  less  certain  that  the  existing  world 
lay,  potentially,  in  the  cosmic  vapor,  and  that  a sufficient 
intellect  could,  from  a knowledge  of  the  properties  of  the 
molecules  of  that  vapor,  have  predicted,  say  the  state  of 
the  Fauna  of  Great  Britain  in  1869,  with  as  much  cer- 
tainty as  one  can  say  what  will  happen  to  the  vapor  of 
the  breath  in  a cold  winter’s  day.”  In  such  a doctrine, 

1 Laplace,  Introduction  a la  theorie  analytique  des  probabilitis  (CEuvres 
completes,  vol.  vii.,  Paris,  1886,  p.  vi.). 

2 Du  Bois-Reymond,  Uber  die  Grenzen  des  Naturerkennens,  Leipzig, 
1892. 


1] 


RADICAL  FINALISM 


39 


time  is  still  spoken  of : one  pronounces  the  word,  but  one 
does  not  think  of  the  thing.  For  time  is  here  deprived 
of  efficacy,  and  if  it  does  nothing,  it  is  nothing.  Radical 
mechanism  implies  a metaphysic  in  which  the  totality 
of  the  real  is  postulated  complete  in  eternity,  and  in  which 
the  apparent  duration  of  things  expresses  merely  the  in- 
firmity of  a mind  that  cannot  know  everything  at  once. 
But  duration  is  something  very  different  from  this  for 
our  consciousness,  that  is  to  say,  for  that  which  is  most 
indisputable  in  our  experience.  We  perceive  duration 
as  a stream  against  which  we  cannot  go.  It  is  the  founda- 
tion of  our  being,  and,  as  we  feel,  the  very  substance  of 
the  world  in  which  we  live.  It  is  of  no  use  to  hold  up 
before  our  eyes  the  dazzling  prospect  of  a universal  mathe- 
matic; we  cannot  sacrifice  experience  to  the  requirements 
of  a system.  That  is  why  we  reject  radical  mechanism. 

But  radical  finalism  is  quite  as  unacceptable,  and  for 
the  same  reason.  The  doctrine  of  teleology,  in  its  extreme 
form,  as  we  find  it  in  Leibniz  for  example,  implies  that 
things  and  beings  merely  realize  a programme  previously 
arranged.  But  if  there  is  nothing  unforeseen,  no  invention 
or  creation  in  the  universe,  time  is  useless  again.  As  in  the 
mechanistic  hypothesis,  here  again  it  is  supposed  that 
all  is  given.  Finalism  thus  understood  is  only  inverted 
mechanism.  It  springs  from  the  same  postulate,  with 
this  sole  difference,  that  in  the  movement  of  our  finite 
intellects  along  successive  things,  whose  successiveness 
is  reduced  to  a mere  appearance,  it  holds  in  front  of  us  the 
light  with  which  it  claims  to  guide  us,  instead  of  putting 
it  behind.  It  substitutes  the  attraction  of  the  future  for 
the  impulsion  of  the  past.  But  succession  remains  none 
the  less  a mere  appearance,  as  indeed  does  movement 
itself.  In  the  doctrine  of  Leibniz,  time  is  reduced  to  a 


40 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


confused  perception,  relative  to  the  human  standpoint, 
a perception  which  would  vanish,  like  a rising  mist,  for  a 
mind  seated  at  the  centre  of  things. 

Yet  finalism  is  not,  like  mechanism,  a doctrine  with 
fixed  rigid  outlines.  It  admits  of  as  many  inflections 
as  we  like.  The  mechanistic  philosophy  is  to  be  taken 
or  left : it  must  be  left  if  the  least  grain  of  dust,  by  straying 
from  the  path  foreseen  by  mechanics,  should  show  the 
slightest  trace  of  spontaneity.  The  doctrine  of  final  causes, 
on  the  contrary,  will  never  be  definitively  refuted.  If 
one ''form  of  it  be  put  aside,  it  will  take  another.  Its 
principle,  which  is  essentially  psychological,  is  very  flexible. 
It  is  so  extensible,  and  thereby  so  comprehensive,  that  one 
accepts  something  of  it  as  soon  as  one  rejects  pure  mech- 
anism. The  theory  we  shall  put  forward  in  this  book  will 
therefore  necessarily  partake  of  finalism  to  a certain  ex- 
tent. For  that  reason  it  is  important  to  intimate  exactly 
what  we  are  going  to  take  of  it,  and  what  we  mean  to  leave. 

Let  us  say  at  once  that  to  thin  out  the  Leibnizian  finalism 
by  breaking  it  into  an  infinite  number  of  pieces  seems  to 
us  a step  in  the  wrong  direction.  This  is,  however,  the 
tendency  of  the  doctrine  of  finality.  It  fully  realizes  that 
if  the  universe  as  a whole  is  the  carrying  out  of  a plan, 
this  cannot  be  demonstrated  empirically,  and  that  even 
of  the  organized  world  alone  it  is  hardly  easier  to  prove 
all  harmonious:  facts  would  equally  well  testify  to  the 
contrary.  Nature  sets  living  beings  at  discord  with  one 
another.  She  everywhere  presents  disorder  alongside 
of  order,  retrogression  alongside  of  progress.  But,  though 
finality  cannot  be  affirmed  either  of  the  whole  of  matter  or 
of  the  whole  of  life,  might  it  not  yet  be  true,  says  the 
finalist,  of  each  organism  taken  separately?  Is  there 
not  a wonderful  division  of  labor,  a marvellous  solidarity 
among  the  parts  of  an  organism,  perfect  order  in  infinite 


I.] 


RADICAL  FINALISM 


41 


complexity?  Does  not  each  living  being  thus  realize 
a plan  immanent  in  its  substance? — This  theory  con- 
sists, at  bottom,  in  breaking  up  the  original  notion  of 
finality  into  bits.  It  does  not  accept,  indeed  it  ridicules, 
the  idea  of  an  external  finality,  according  to  which  living 
beings  are  ordered  with  regard  to  each  other:  to  suppose 
the  grass  made  for  the  cow,  the  lamb  for  the  wolf — that  is 
all  acknowledged  to  be  absurd.  But  there  is,  we  are  told, 
an  internal  finality:  each  being  is  made  for  itself,  all  its 
parts  conspire  for  the  greatest  good  of  the  whole  and  are 
intelligently  organized  in  view  of  that  end.  Such  is  the 
notion  of  finality  which  has  long  been  classic.  Finalism 
has  shrunk  to  the  point  of  never  embracing  more  than  one 
living  being  at  a time.  By  making  itself  smaller,  it  probably 
thought  it  would  offer  less  surface  for  blows. 

The  truth  is,  it  lay  open  to  them  a great  deal  more. 
Radical  as  our  own  theory  may  appear,  finality  is  external 
or  it  is  nothing  at  all. 

Consider  the  most  complex  and  the  most  harmonious 
organism.  All  the  elements,  we  are  told,  conspire  for 
the  greatest  good  of  the  whole.  Very  well,  but  let  us 
not  forget  that  each  of  these  elements  may  itself  be  an 
organism  in  certain  cases,  and  that  in  subordinating  the 
existence  of  this  small  organism  to  the  life  of  the  great 
one  we  accept  the  principle  of  an  external  finality.  The 
idea  of  a finality  that  is  always  internal  is  therefore  a self- 
destructive notion.  An  organism  is  composed  of  tissues, 
each  of  which  lives  for  itself.  The  cells  of  which  the  tissues 
are  made  have  also  a certain  independence.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, if  the  subordination  of  all  the  elements  of  the  individ- 
ual to  the  individual  itself  were  complete,  we  might  contend 
that  they  are  not  organisms,  reserve  the  name  organism  for 
the  individual,  and  recognize  only  internal  finality.  But 
every  one  knows  that  these  elements  may  possess  a true  au- 


42 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


tonomy.  To  say  nothing  of  phagoc}Tes,  which  push  inde- 
pendence to  the  point  of  attacking  the  organism  that 
nourishes  them,  or  of  germinal  cells,  which  have  their  own 
life  alongside  the  somatic  cells — the  facts  of  regeneration 
are  enough:  here  an  element  or  a group  of  elements  sud- 
denly reveals  that,  however  limited  its  normal  space  and 
function,  it  can  transcend  them  occasionally;  it  may  even, 
in  certain  cases,  be  regarded  as  the  equivalent  of  the 
whole. 

There  lies  the  stumbling-block  of  the  vitalistic  theories. 
We  'shall  not  reproach  them,  as  is  ordinarily  done,  with 
replying  to  the  question  by  the  question  itself:  the  vital 
principle’’  may  indeed  not  explain  much,  but  it  is  at  least 
a sort  of  label  affixed  to  our  ignorance,  so  as  to  remind 
us  of  this  occasionally,'  while  mechanism  invites  us  to 
ignore  that  ignorance.  But  the  position  of  vitalism  is 
rendered  very  difficult  by  the  fact  that,  in  nature,  there  is 
neither  purely  internal  finality  nor  absolutely  distinct 
individuality.  The  organized  elements  composing  the 
individual  have  themselves  a certain  individuality,  and 
each  will  claim  its  vital  principle  if  the  individual  pre- 
tends to  have  its  own.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  in- 
dividual itself  is  not  sufficiently  independent,  not  sufficiently 
cut  off  from  other  things,  for  us  to  allow  it  a “ vital  princi- 

1 There  are  really  two  lines  to  follow  in  contemporary  neo-vitalism: 
on  the  one  hand,  the  assertion  that  pure  mechanism  is  insufficient, 
which  assumes  great  authority  when  made  by  such  scientists  as  Driesch 
or  Reinke,  for  example;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  hypotheses  which 
this  vitalism  superposes  on  mechanism  (the  “entelechies”  of  Driesch, 
and  the  “dominants”  of  Reinke,  etc.).  Of  these  two  parts,  the  former 
is  perhaps  the  more  interesting.  See  the  admirable  studies  of  Driesch — 
Die  Lokalisation  morphogenetischer  Vorgange,  Leipzig,  1899;  Die  organ- 
ischen  Regulationen , Leipzig,  1901;  N aturhegriffe  und  N atururteile,  Leip- 
zig, 1904;  Der  Vitalismus  als  Geschichte  und  als  Le/ire,  Leipzig,  1905; 
and  of  Reinke — Die  '^/elt  als  Tat,  Berlin,  1899;  Einleitung  in  die 
theoretische  Biologie,  Berlin,  1901;  Philosophie  der  Botanik,  Leipzig, 
1905. 


I.l 


RADICAL  FINALISM 


43 


pie’’  of  its  own.  An  organism  such  as  a higher  vertebrate 
is  the  most  individuated  of  all  organisms;  yet,  if  we  take 
into  account  that  it  is  only  the  development  of  an  ovum 
forming  part  of  the  body  of  its  mother  and  of  a spermato- 
zoon belonging  to  the  body  of  its  father,  that  the  egg 
{i.e.  the  ovum  fertilized)  is  a connecting  link  between  the 
two  progenitors  since  it  is  common  to  their  two  sub- 
stances, we  shall  realize  that  every  individual  organism, 
even  that  of  a man,  is  merely  a bud  that  has  sprouted  on 
the  combined  body  of  both  its  parents.  "Where,  then, 
does  the  vital  principle  of  the  individual  begin  or  end? 
Gradually  we  shall  be  carried  further  and  further  back, 
up  to  the  individual’s  remotest  ancestors:  we  shall  find 
him  solidary  with  each  of  them,  solidary  with  that  little 
mass  of  protoplasmic  jelly  which  is  probably  at  the  root 
of  the  genealogical  tree  of  life.  Being,  to  a certain  extent, 
one  with  this  primitive  ancestor,  he  is  also  solidary  with 
all  that  descends  from  the  ancestor  in  divergent  directions. 
In  this  sense  each  individual  may  be  said  to  remain  united 
with  the  totality  of  living  beings  by  invisible  bonds.  So 
it  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  restrict  finality  to  the  individuality 
of  the  living  being.  If  there  is  finality  in  the  world  of  life,  it 
includes  the  vdiole  of  life  in  a single  indivisible  embrace. 
This  life  common  to  all  the  living  undoubtedly  presents 
many  gaps  and  incoherences,  and  again  it  is  not  so  mathe- 
matically one  that  it  cannot  allow  each  being  to  become 
individualized  to  a certain  degree.  But  it  forms  a single 
whole,  none  the  less;  and  we  have  to  choose  between  the 
out-and-out  negation  of  finality  and  the  hypothesis  which 
co-ordinates  not  only  the  parts  of  an  organism  with  the 
organism  itself,  but  also  each  living  being  with  the  col- 
lective whole  of  all  others. 

Finality  will  not  go  down  any  easier  for  being  taken 
as  a powder.  Either  the  hypothesis  of  a finality  im- 


44 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


manent  in  life  should  be  rejected  as  a whole,  or  it  must 
undergo  a treatment  very  different  from  pulverization. 

The  error  of  radical  finalism,  as  also  that  of  radical 
mechanism,  is  to  extend  too  far  the  application  of  certain 
concepts  that  are  natural  to  our  intellect.  Originally, 
we  think  only  in  order  to  act.  Our  intellect  has  been 
cast  in  the  mold  of  action.  Speculation  is  a luxury,  while 
action  is  a necessity.  Now,  in  order  to  act,  we  begin  by 
proposing  an  end;  we  make  a plan,  then  we  go  on  to  the 
detail  of  the  mechanism  which  will  bring  it  to  pass.  This 
latter  operation  is  possible  only  if  we  know  what  we  can 
reckon  on.  We  must  therefore  have  managed  to  extract 
resemblances  from  nature,  which  enable  us  to  anticipate 
the  future.  Thus  we  must,  consciously  or  miconsciously, 
have  made  use  of  the  law  of  causality.  Moreover,  the 
more  sharply  the  idea  of  efficient  causality  is  defined  in 
our  mind,  the  more  it  takes  the  form  of  a mechanical 
causality.  And  this  scheme,  in  its  turn,  is  the  more 
mathematical  according  as  it  expresses  a more  rigorous 
necessity.  That  is  why  we  have  only  to  follow  the  bent 
of  our  mind  to  become  mathematicians.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  this  natural  mathematics  is  only  the  rigid 
unconscious  skeleton  beneath  our  conscious  supple  habit 
of  linking  the  same  causes  to  the  same  effects ; and  the  usual 
object  of  this  habit  is  to  guide  actions  inspired  by  in- 
tentions, or,  what  comes  to  the  same,  to  direct  movements 
combined  with  a view  to  reproducing  a pattern.  We  are 
born  artisans  as  we  are  born  geometricians,  and  indeed 
we  are  geometricians  only  because  we  are  artisans.  Thus 
the  human  intellect,  inasmuch  as  it  is  fashioned  for  the 
needs  of  human  action,  is  an  intellect  which  proceeds  at 
the  same  time  by  intention  and  by  calculation,  by  adapt- 
ing means  to  ends  and  by  thinking  out  mechanisms  of 


I.l 


BIOLOGY  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


45 


more  and  more  geometrical  form.  Whether  nature  be 
conceived  as  an  immense  machine  regulated  by  mathe- 
matical laws,  or  as  the  realization  of  a plan,  these  two  ways 
of  regarding  it  are  only  the  consummation  of  two  tendencies 
of  mind  which  are  complementary  to  each  other,  and  which 
have  their  origin  in  the  same  vital  necessities. 

For  that  reason,  radical  finalism  is  very  near  radical 
mechanism  on  many  points.  Both  doctrines  are  reluc- 
tant to  see  in  the  course  of  things  generally,  or  even  simply 
in  the  development  of  life,  an  unforeseeable  creation  of 
form.  In  considering  reality,  mechanism  regards  only 
the  aspect  of  similarity  or  repetition.  It  is  therefore 
dominated  by  this  law,  that  in  nature  there  is  only  like 
reproducing  like.  The  more  the  geometry  in  mechanism 
is  emphasized,  the  less  can  mechanism  admit  that  any- 
thing is  ever  created,  even  pure  form.  In  so  far  as  we  are 
geometricians,  then,  we  reject  the  unforeseeable.  We 
might  accept  it,  assuredly,  in  so  far  as  we  are  artists,  for 
art  lives  on  creation  and  implies  a latent  belief  in  the 
spontaneity  of  nature.  But  disinterested  art  is  a luxury, 
like  pure  speculation.  Long  before  being  artists,  we  are 
artisans;  and  all  fabrication,  however  rudimentary,  lives 
on  likeness  and  repetition,  like  the  natural  geometry  which 
serves  as  its  fulcrum.  Fabrication  works  on  models 
which  it  sets  out  to  reproduce;  and  even  when  it  invents, 
it  proceeds,  or  imagines  itself  to  proceed,  by  a new  ar- 
rangement of  elements  already  known.  Its  principle 
is  that  ‘'we  must  have  like  to  produce  like.”  In  short, 
the  strict  application  of  the  principle  of  finality,  like  that 
of  the  principle  of  mechanical  causality,  leads  to  the  con- 
clusion that  “all  is  given.”  Both  principles  say  the  same 
thing  in  their  respective  languages,  because  they  respond 
to  the  same  need. 

That  is  why  again  they  agree  in  doing  away  with  time. 


46 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


Real  duration  is  that  duration  which  gnaws  on  things, 
and  leaves  on  them  the  mark  of  its  tooth.  If  everything 
is  in  time,  everything  changes  inwardly,  and  the  same 
concrete  reality  never  recurs.  Repetition  is  therefore 
possible  only  in  the  abstract:  what  is  repeated  is  some 
aspect  that  our  senses,  and  especially  our  intellect,  have 
singled  out  from  reality,  just  because  our  action,  upon 
which  all  the  effort  of  our  intellect  is  directed,  can  move 
only  among  repetitions.  Thus,  concentrated  on  that 
which  repeats,  solely  preoccupied  in  welding  the  same 
to  the  same,  intellect  turns  away  from  the  vision  of  time. 
It  dislikes  what  is  fluid,  and  solidifles  everything  it  touches. 
We  do  not  think  real  time.  But  we  live  it,  because  life 
transcends  intellect.  The  feeling  we  have  of  our  evolution 
and  of  the  evolution  of  all  things  in  pure  duration  is  there, 
forming  around  the  intellectual  concept  properly  so-called 
an  indistinct  fringe  that  fades  off  into  darkness.  Mechan- 
ism and  flnalism  agree  in  taking  account  only  of  the  bright 
nucleus  shining  in  the  centre.  They  forget  that  this 
nucleus  has  been  formed  out  of  the  rest  by  condensation, 
and  that  the  whole  must  be  used,  the  fluid  as  well  as  and 
more  than  the  condensed,  in  order  to  grasp  the  inner  move- 
ment of  life. 

Indeed,  if  the  fringe  exists,  however  delicate  and  in- 
distinct, it  should  have  more  importance  for  philosophy 
than  the  bright  nucleus  it  surrounds.  For  it  is  its  presence 
that  enables  us  to  affirm  that  the  nucleus  is  a nucleus,  that 
pure  intellect  is  a contraction,  by  condensation,  of  a more 
extensive  power.  And,  just  because  this  vague  intuition 
is  of  no  help  in  directing  our  action  on  things,  which  action 
takes  place  exclusively  on  the  surface  of  reality,  we  may 
presume  that  it  is  to  be  exercised  not  merely  on  the  sur- 
face, but  below. 

As  soon  as  we  go  out  of  the  encasings  in  which  radical 


I.J 


BIOLOGY  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


47 


mechanism  and  radical  finalism  confine  our  thought,  reality 
appears  as  a ceaseless  upspringing  of  something  new,  which 
has  no  sooner  arisen  to  make  the  present  than  it  has  al- 
ready fallen  back  into  the  past;  at  this  exact  moment  it 
falls  under  the  glance  of  the  intellect,  whose  eyes  are  ever 
turned  to  the  rear.  This  is  already  the  case  with  our 
inner  life.  For  each  of  our  acts  we  shall  easily  find  ante- 
cedents of  which  it  may  in  some  sort  be  said  to  be  the 
mechanical  resultant.  And  it  may  equally  well  be  said 
that  each  action  is  the  realization  of  an  intention.  In 
this  sense  mechanism  is  everywhere,  and  finality  every- 
where, in  the  evolution  of  our  conduct.  But  if  our  action 
be  one  that  involves  the  wFole  of  our  person  and  is  truly 
ours,  it  could  not  have  been  foreseen,  even  though  its 
antecedents  explain  it  when  once  it  has  been  accomplished. 
And  though  it  be  the  realizing  of  an  intention,  it  differs, 
as  a present  and  new  reality,  from  the  intention,  which 
can  never  aim  at  anything  but  recommencing  or  rear- 
ranging the  past.  Mechanism  and  finalism  are  there- 
fore, here,  only  external  views  of  our  conduct.  They 
extract  its  intellectuality.  But  our  conduct  slips  between 
them  and  extends  much  further.  Once  again,  this  does 
not  mean  that  free  action  is  capricious,  unreasonable 
action.  To  behave  according  to  caprice  is  to  oscillate 
mechanically  between  two  or  more  ready-made  alternatives 
and  at  length  to  settle  on  one  of  them ; it  is  no  real  matur- 
ing of  an  internal  state,  no  real  evolution;  it  is  merely — 
however  paradoxical  the  assertion  may  seem — bending 
the  will  to  imitate  the  mechanism  of  the  intellect.  A 
conduct  that  is  truly  our  own,  on  the  contrary,  is  that  of  a 
will  which  does  not  try  to  counterfeit  intellect,  and  which, 
remaining  itself — that  is  to  say,  evolving — ripens  gradually 
into  acts  which  the  intellect  will  be  able  to  resolve  in- 
definitely into  intelligible  elements  without  ever  reaching 


48 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


its  goal.  The  free  act  is  incommensurable  with  the  idea, 
and  its  “rationality’^  must  be  defined  by  this  very  in- 
commensurability, which  admits  the  discovery  of  as  much 
intelligibility  within  it  as  we  will.  Such  is  the  character 
of  our  own  evolution;  and  such  also,  without  doubt,  that 
of  the  evolution  of  life. 

Our  reason,  incorrigibly  presumptuous,  imagines  itself 
possessed,  by  right  of  birth  or  by  right  of  conquest,  innate 
or  acquired,  of  all  the  essential  elements  of  the  knowledge 
of  truth.  Even  where  it  confesses  that  it  does  not  know 
th^  object  presented  to  it,  it  believes  that  its  ignorance 
consists  only  in  not  knowing  which  one  of  its  time-honored 
categories  suits  the  new  object.  In  what  drawer,  ready 
to  open,  shall  we  put  it?  In  what  garment,  already  cut 
out,  shall  we  clothe  it?  Is  it  this,  or  that,  or  the  other 
thing?  And  “this,”  and  “that,”  and  “the  other  thing” 
are  always  something  already  conceived,  already  known. 
The  idea  that  for  a new  object  we  might  have  to  create  a 
new  concept,  perhaps  a new  method  of  thinking,  is  deeply 
repugnant  to  us.  The  history  of  philosophy  is  there,  how- 
ever, and  shows  us  the  eternal  conflict  of  systems,  the  im- 
possibility of  satisfactorily  getting  the  real  into  the  ready- 
made garments  of  our  ready-made  concepts,  the  necessity 
of  making  to  measure.  But,  rather  than  go  to  this  ex- 
tremity, our  reason  prefers  to  announce  once  for  all,  with 
a proud  modesty,  that  it  has  to  do  only  with  the  relative, 
and  that  the  absolute  is  not  in  its  province.  This  pre- 
liminary declaration  enables  it  to  apply  its  habitual  method 
of  thought  without  any  scruple,  and  thus,  under  pretense 
that  it  does  not  touch  the  absolute,  to  make  absolute 
judgments  upon  everything.  Plato  was  the  first  to  set  up 
the  theory  that  to  know  the  real  consists  in  finding  its 
Idea,  that  is  to  say,  in  forcing  it  into  a pre-existing  frame 
already  at  our  disposal — as  if  we  implicitly  possessed  uni- 


I.l 


BIOLOGY  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


49 


versal  knowledge.  But  this  belief  is  natural  to  the  human 
intellect,  always  engaged  as  it  is  in  determining  under  what 
former  heading  it  shall  catalogue  any  new  object;  and  it 
may  be  said  that,  in  a certain  sense,  we  are  all  born 
Platonists. 

Nowhere  is  the  inadequacy  of  this  method  so  obvious 
as  in  theories  of  life.  If,  in  evolving  in  the  direction  of 
the  vertebrates  in  general,  of  man  and  intellect  in  par- 
ticular, life  has  had  to  abandon  by  the  way  many  elements 
incompatible  with  this  particular  mode  of  organization 
and  consign  them,  as  we  shall  show,  to  other  lines  of 
development,  it  is  the  totality  of  these  elements  that  we 
must  find  again  and  rejoin  to  the  intellect  proper,  in 
order  to  grasp  the  true  nature  of  vital  activity.  And  we 
shall  probably  be  aided  in  this  by  the  fringe  of  vague  in- 
tuition that  surrounds  our  distinct — that  is,  intellectual 
— representation.  For  what  can  this  useless  fringe  be, 
if  not  that  part  of  the  evolving  principle  w^hich  has  not 
shrunk  to  the  peculiar  form  of  our  organization,  but  has 
settled  around  it  unasked  for,  unwanted?  It  is  there, 
accordingly,  that  we  must  look  for  hints  to  expand  the 
intellectual  form  of  our  thought ; from  there  shall  we  derive 
the  impetus  necessary  to  lift  us  above  ourselves.  To 
form  an  idea  of  the  whole  of  life  cannot  consist  in  combin- 
ing simple  ideas  that  have  been  left  behind  in  us  by  life 
itself  in  the  course  of  its  evolution.  How  could  the  part 
be  equivalent  to  the  whole,  the  content  to  the  container, 
a by-product  of  the  vital  operation  to  the  operation  itself? 
Such,  however,  is  our  illusion  when  we  define  the  evolution 
of  life  as  a “passage  from  the  homogeneous  to  the  hetero- 
geneous,’’ or  by  any  other  concept  obtained  by  putting 
fragments  of  intellect  side  by  side.  We  place  ourselves 
in  one  of  the  points  where  evolution  comes  to  a head — 
the  principal  one,  no  doubt,  but  not  the  only  one;  and 


50 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


there  we  do  not  even  take  all  we  find,  for  of  the  intellect 
we  keep  only  one  or  two  of  the  concepts  by  which  it  ex- 
presses itself;  and  it  is  this  part  of  a part  that  we  declare 
representative  of  the  whole,  of  something  indeed  which 
goes  beyond  the  concrete  whole,  I mean  of  the  evolution 
movement  of  which  this  “whole”  is  only  the  present  stage! 
The  truth  is,  that  to  represent  this  the  entire  intellect 
would  not  be  too  much — nay,  it  would  not  be  enough. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  add  to  it  what  we  find  in  every 
other  terminal  point  of  evolution.  And  these  diverse 
and  divergent  elements  must  be  considered  as  so  many 
extracts  which  are,  or  at  least  which  were,  in  their  humblest 
form,  mutually  complementary.  Only  then  might  we 
have  an  inkling  of  the  real  nature  of  the  evolution  move- 
ment; and  even  then  we  should  fail  to  grasp  it  completely, 
for  we  should  still  be  dealing  only  with  the  evolved,  which 
is  a result,  and  not  with  evolution  itself,  which  is  the  act 
by  which  the  result  is  obtained. 

Such  is  the  philosophy  of  life  to  which  we  are  leading 
up.  It  claims  to  transcend  both  mechanism  and  finalism; 
but,  as  we  announced  at  the  beginning,  it  is  nearer  the 
second  doctrine  than  the  first.  It  will  not  be  amiss  to 
dwell  on  this  point,  and  show  more  precisely  how  far  this 
philosophy  of  life  resembles  finalism  and  wherein  it  is 
different. 

Like  radical  finalism,  although  in  a vaguer  form,  our 
philosophy  represents  the  organized  world  as  a harmonious 
whole.  But  this  harmony  is  far  from  being  as  perfect 
as  it  has  been  claimed  to  be.  It  admits  of  much  discord, 
because  each  species,  each  individual  even,  retains  only 
a certain  impetus  from  the  universal  vital  impulsion  and 
tends  to  use  this  energy  in  its  own  interest.  In  this  con- 
sists adaptation.  The  species  and  the  individual  thus 
think  only  of  themselves — whence  arises  a possible  conflict 


I.l 


BIOLOGY  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


51 


with  other  forms  of  life.  Harmony,  therefore,  does  not 
exist  in  fact;  it  exists  rather  in  principle;  I mean  that 
the  original  impetus  is  a common  impetus,  and  the  higher 
we  ascend  the  stream  of  life  the  more  do  diverse  tendencies 
appear  complementary  to  each  other.  Thus  the  wind 
at  a street-corner  divides  into  diverging  currents  which 
are  all  one  and  the  same  gust.  Harmony,  or  rather  “ com- 
plementarity,’’ is  revealed  only  in  the  mass,  in  tendencies 
rather  than  in  states.  Especially  (and  this  is  the  point 
on  which  finalism  has  been  most  seriously  mistaken) 
harmony  is  rather  behind  us  than  before.  It  is  due  to  an 
identity  of  impulsion  and  not  to  a common  aspiration. 
It  would  be  futile  to  try  to  assign  to  life  an  end,  in  the 
human  sense  of  the  word.  To  speak  of  an  end  is  to  think 
of  a pre-existing  model  which  has  only  to  be  realized.  It 
is  to  suppose,  therefore,  that  all  is  given,  and  that  the  future 
can  be  read  in  the  present.  It  is  to  believe  that  life,  in  its 
movement  and  in  its  entirety,  goes  to  work  like  our  in- 
tellect, which  is  only  a motionless  and  fragmentary  view 
of  life,  and  which  naturally  takes  its  stand  outside  of  time. 
Life,  on  the  contrary,  progresses  and  endures  in  time.  Of 
course,  when  once  the  road  has  been  traveled,  we  can 
glance  over  it,  mark  its  direction,  note  this  in  psychological 
terms  and  speak  as  if  there  had  been  pursuit  of  an  end. 
Thus  shall  we  speak  ourselves.  But,  of  the  road  which 
was  going  to  be  traveled,  the  human  mind  could  have 
nothing  to  say,  for  the  road  has  been  created  pari  passu 
with  the  act  of  traveling  over  it,  being  nothing  but  the 
direction  of  this  act  itself.  At  every  instant,  then,  evo- 
lution must  admit  of  a psychological  interpretation  which 
is,  from  our  point  of  view,  the  best  interpretation;  but 
this  explanation  has  neither  value  nor  even  significance 
except  retrospectively.  Never  could  the  finalistic  inter- 
pretation, such  as  we  shall  propose  it,  be  taken  for  an 


52 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CILU>. 


anticipation  of  the  future.  It  is  a particular  mode  of 
viewing  the  past  in  the  light  of  the  present.  In  short, 
the  classic  conception  of  finality  postulates  at  once  too 
much  and  too  little:  it  is  both  too  wide  and  too  narrow. 
In  explaining  life  by  intellect,  it  limits  too  much  the  mean- 
ing of  life:  intellect,  such  at  least  as  we  find  it  in  ourselves, 
has  been  fashioned  by  evolution  during  the  course  of 
progress;  it  is  cut  out  of  something  larger,  or,  rather, 
it  is  only  the  projection,  necessarily  on  a plane,  of  a reality 
that  possesses  both  relief  and  depth.  It  is  this  more  com- 
prehensive reality  that  true  finalism  ought  to  reconstruct, 
or,  rather,  if  possible,  embrace  in  one  view.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  just  because  it  goes  beyond  intellect — the 
faculty  of  connecting  the  same  with  the  same,  of  per- 
ceiving and  also  of  producing  repetitions — this  reality  is 
undoubtedly  creative,  i.  e.  productive  of  effects  in  which 
it  expands  and  transcends  its  own  being.  These  effects 
w’ere  therefore  not  given  in  it  in  advance,  and  so  it  could 
not  take  them  for  ends,  although,  when  once  produced, 
they  admit  of  a rational  interpretation,  like  that  of  the 
manufactured  article  that  has  reproduced  a model.  In 
short,  the  theory  of  final  causes  does  not  go  far  enough  when 
it  confines  itself  to  ascribing  some  intelligence  to  nature, 
and  it  goes  too  far  when  it  supposes  a pre-existence  of 
the  future  in  the  present  in  the  form  of  idea.  And  the 
second  theory,  which  sins  by  excess,  is  the  outcome  of 
the  first,  which  sins  by  defect.  In  place  of  intellect  proper 
must  be  substituted  the  more  comprehensive  reality  of 
which  intellect  is  only  the  contraction.  The  future  then 
appears  as  expanding  the  present:  it  was  not,  therefore, 
contained  in  the  present  in  the  form  of  a represented  end. 
And  yet,  once  realized,  it  will  explain  the  present  as  much 
as  the  present  explains  it,  and  even  more ; it  must  be  viewed 
as  an  end  as  much  as,  and  more  than,  a result.  Our  in- 


I.] 


BIOLOGY  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


53 


tellect  has  a right  to  consider  the  future  abstractly  from 
its  habitual  point  of  view,  being  itself  an  abstract  view 
of  the  cause  of  its  own  being. 

It  is  true  that  the  cause  may  then  seem  beyond  our 
grasp.  Already  the  finalist  theory  of  life  eludes  all  pre- 
cise verification.  What  if  we  go  beyond  it  in  one  of  its 
directions?  Here,  in  fact,  after  a necessary  digression, 
we  are  back  at  the  question  which  we  regard  as  essential: 
can  the  insufficiency  of  mechanism  be  proved  by  facts? 
We  said  that  if  this  demonstration  is  possible,  it  is  on  con- 
dition of  frankly  accepting  the  evolutionist  hypothesis. 
We  must  now  show  that  if  mechanism  is  insufficient  to 
account  for  evolution,  the  way  of  proving  this  insufficiency 
•is  not  to  stop  at  the  classic  conception  of  finality,  still 
less  to  contract  or  attenuate  it,  but,  on  the  contrary,  to 
go  further. 

Let  us  indicate  at  once  the  principle  of  our  demonstration. 
We  said  of  life  that,  from  its  origin,  it  is  the  continuation 
of  one  and  the  same  impetus,  divided  into  divergent  lines 
of  evolution.  Something  has  grown,  something  has  de- 
veloped by  a series  of  additions  which  have  been  so  many 
creations.  This  very  development  has  brought  about  a 
dissociation  of  tendencies  which  were  unable  to  grow  be- 
yond a certain  point  without  becoming  mutually  incom- 
patible. Strictly  speaking,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
our  imagining  that  the  evolution  of  life  might  have  taken 
place  in  one  single  individual  by  means  of  a series  of  trans- 
formations spread  over  thousands  of  ages.  Or,  instead 
of  a single  individual,  any  number  might  be  supposed, 
succeeding  each  other  in  a unilinear  series.  In  both  cases 
evolution  would  have  had,  so  to  speak,  one  dimension  only. 
But  evolution  has  actually  taken  place  through  millions 
of  individuals,  on  divergent  lines,  each  ending  at  a crossing 
from  which  new  paths  radiate,  and  so  on  indefinitely.  If 


54 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


our  hypothesis  is  justified,  if  the  essential  causes  working 
along  these  diverse  roads  are  of  psychological  nature,  they 
must  keep  something  in  common  in  spite  of  the  divergence 
of  their  effects,  as  school-fellows  long  separated  keep  the 
same  memories  of  boyhood.  Roads  may  fork  or  by-ways 
be  opened  along  which  dissociated  elements  may  evolve 
in  an  independent  manner,  but  nevertheless  it  is  in  virtue 
of  the  primitive  impetus  of  the  whole  that  the  movement  of 
the  parts  continues.  Something  of  the  whole,  therefore, 
must  abide  in  the  parts;  and  this  common  element  wfill 
be  evident  to  us  in  some  way,  perhaps  by  the  presence  of 
identical  organs  in  very  different  organisms.  Suppose, 
for  an  instant,  that  the  mechanistic  explanation  is  the  true 
one:  evolution  must  then  have  occurred  through  a series 
of  accidents  added  to  one  another,  each  new  accident 
being  preserved  by  selection  if  it  is  advantageous  to  that 
sum  of  former  advantageous  accidents  which  the  present 
form  of  the  living  being  represents.  VTiat  likelihood  is 
there  that,  by  two  entirely  different  series  of  accidents 
being  added  together,  two  entirely  different  evolutions 
will  arrive  at  similar  results?  The  more  two  lines  of  evo- 
lution diverge,  the  less  probability  is  there  that  accidental 
outer  influences  or  accidental  inner  variations  bring  about 
the  construction  of  the  same  apparatus  upon  them,  es- 
pecially if  there  w^as  no  trace  of  this  apparatus  at  the 
moment  of  divergence.  But  such  similarity  of  the  two 
products  would  be  natural,  on  the  contrary,  on  a hypothesis 
like  ours : even  in  the  latest  channel  there  would  be  some- 
thing of  the  impulsion  received  at  the  source.  Pure 
mechanism,  then,  would  he  refutable,  and  finality,  in  the 
special  sense  in  which  we  understand  it,  would  he  demon- 
strable in  a certain  aspect,  if  it  could  he  proved  that  life  may 
manufacture  the  like  apparatus,  hy  unlike  means,  on  di- 
vergent lines  of  evolution;  and  the  strength  of  the  proof 


I.] 


THE  QUEST  OF  A CRITERION 


55 


would  he  proportional  both  to  the  divergency  between  the 
lines  of  evolution  thus  chosen  and  to  the  complexity  of  the 
similar  structures  found  in  them. 

It  will  be  said  that  resemblance  of  structure  is  due  to 
sameness  of  the  general  conditions  in  w^hich  life  has  evolved, 
and  that  these  permanent  outer  conditions  may  have 
imposed  the  same  direction  on  the  forces  constructing 
this  or  that  apparatus,  in  spite  of  the  diversity  of  transient 
outer  influences  and  accidental  inner  changes.  We  are 
not,  of  course,  blind  to  the  role  which  the  concept  of 
adaptation  plays  in  the  science  of  to-day.  Biologists  cer- 
tainly do  not  all  make  the  same  use  of  it.  Some  think 
the  outer  conditions  capable  of  causing  change  in  organ- 
isms in  a direct  manner,  in  a definite  direction,  through 
physico-chemical  alterations  induced  by  them  in  the  liv- 
ing substance;  such  is  the  hypothesis  of  Eimer,  for  example. 
Others,  more  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  Darwinism,  believe 
the  influence  of  conditions  works  indirectly  only,  through 
favoring,  in  the  struggle  for  life,  those  representatives  of  a 
species  which  the  chance  of  birth  has  best  adapted  to  the 
environment.  In  other  words,  some  attribute  a positive 
influence  to  outer  conditions,  and  say  that  they  actually 
give  rise  to  variations,  while  the  others  say  these  conditions 
have  only  a negative  influence  and  merely  eliminate  varia- 
tions. But,  in  both  cases,  the  outer  conditions  are  sup- 
posed to  bring  about  a precise  adjustment  of  the  organism 
to  its  circumstances.  Both  parties,  then,  wdll  attempt 
to  explain  mechanically,  by  adaptation  to  similar  condi- 
tions, the  similarities  of  structure  which  we  think  are  the 
strongest  argument  against  mechanism.  So  we  must  at 
once  indicate  in  a general  w^ay,  before  passing  to  the  detail, 
why  explanations  from  ‘‘adaptation’’  seem  to  us  insufficient. 

Let  us  first  remark  that,  of  the  two  hypotheses  just 
described,  the  latter  is  the  only  one  which  is  not  equivocal. 


56 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


ICHAP. 


The  Darwinian  idea  of  adaptation  by  automatic  elimina- 
tion of  the  unadapted  is  a simple  and  clear  idea.  But, 
just  because  it  attributes  to  the  outer  cause  which  con- 
trols evolution  a merely  negative  influence,  it  has  great 
difficulty  in  accounting  for  the  progressive  and,  so  to  say, 
rectilinear  development  of  complex  apparatus  such  as  we 
are  about  to  examine.  How  much  greater  will  this  diffi- 
culty be  in  the  case  of  the  similar  structure  of  two  extremely 
complex  organs  on  two  entirely  different  lines  of  evolution! 
An  accidental  variation,  however  minute,  implies  the 
working  of  a great  number  of  small  physical  and  chemical 
causes.  An  accumulation  of  accidental  variations,  such 
as  would  be  necessary  to  produce  a complex  structure, 
requires  therefore  the  concurrence  of  an  almost  infinite 
munber  of  infinitesimal  causes.  Vliy  should  these  causes, 
entirely  accidental,  recur  the  same,  and  in  the  same  order, 
at  different  points  of  space  and  time?  No  one  will  hold 
that  this  is  the  case,  and  the  Darwinian  himself  will  probably 
merely  maintain  that  identical  effects  may  arise  from 
different  causes,  that  more  than  one  road  leads  to  the  same 
spot.  But  let  us  not  be  fooled  by  a metaphor.  The  place 
reached  does  not  give  the  form  of  the  road  that  leads  there; 
while  an  organic  structure  is  just  the  accumulation  of 
those  small  differences  which  evolution  has  had  to  go 
through  in  order  to  achieve  it.  The  struggle  for  life  and 
natural  selection  can  be  of  no  use  to  us  in  solving  this 
part  of  the  problem,  for  we  are  not  concerned  here  with 
what  has  perished,  w^e  have  to  do  only  with  what  has 
survived.  Now,  we  see  that  identical  structures  have 
been  formed  on  independent  lines  of  evolution  by  a gradual 
accumulation  of  effects.  How  can  accidental  causes, 
occurring  in  an  accidental  order,  be  supposed  to  have 
repeatedly  come  to’  the  same  result,  the  causes  being  in- 
finitely numerous  and  the  effect  infinitely  complicated? 


I.l 


THE  QUEST  OF  A CRITERION 


57 


The  principle  of  mechanism  is  that  “the  same  causes 
produce  the  same  effects.”  This  principle,  of  course,  does 
not  always  imply  that  the  same  effects  must  have  the  same 
causes;  but  it  does  involve  this  consequence  in  the  particu- 
lar case  in  which  the  causes  remain  visible  in  the  effect 
that  they  produce  and  are  indeed  its  constitutive  elements. 
That  two  walkers  starting  from  different  points  and  v/an- 
dering  at  random  should  finally  meet,  is  no  great  wonder. 
But  that,  throughout  their  walk,  they  should  describe 
two  identical  curves  exactly  superposable  on  each  other, 
is  altogether  unlikely.  The  improbability  will  be  the 
greater,  the  more  complicated  the  routes;  and  it  will 
become  impossibility,  if  the  zigzags  are  infinitely  com- 
plicated. Now,  what  is  this  complexity  of  zigzags  as 
compared  with  that  of  an  organ  in  which  thousands  of 
different  cells,  each  being  itself  a kind  of  organism,  are 
arranged  in  a definite  order? 

Let  us  turn,  then,  to  the  other  hypothesis,  and  see  how 
it  would  solve  the  problem.  Adaptation,  it  says,  is  not 
merely  elimination  of  the  unadapted ; it  is  due  to  the  posi- 
tive influence  of  outer  conditions  that  have  molded  the 
organism  on  their  own  form.  This  time,  similarity  of 
effects  will  be  explained  by  similarity  of  cause.  We  shall 
remain,  apparently,  in  pure  mechanism.  But  if  we  look 
closely,  we  shall  see  that  the  explanation  is  merely  verbal, 
that  we  are  again  the  dupes  of  words,  and  that  the  trick 
of  the  solution  consists  in  taking  the  term  “adaptation” 
in  tw’o  entirely  different  senses  at  the  same  time. 

If  I pour  into  the  same  glass,  by  turns,  water  and  wine, 
the  two  liquids  will  take  the  same  form,  and  the  sameness 
in  form  will  be  due  to  the  sameness  in  adaptation  of  content 
to  container.  Adaptation,  here,  really  means  mechanical 
adjustment.  The  reason  is  that  the  form  to  which  the 
matter  has  adapted  itself  was  there,  ready-made,  and 


58 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


has  forced  its  own  shape  on  the  matter.  But,  in  the 
adaptation  of  an  organism  to  the  circumstances  it  has  to 
live  in,  where  is  the  pre-existing  form  awaiting  its  matter? 
The  circumstances  are  not  a mold  into  which  life  is  inserted 
and  whose  form  life  adopts:  this  is  indeed  to  be  fooled  by 
a metaphor.  There  is  no  form  yet,  and  the  life  must 
create  a form  for  itself,  suited  to  the  circumstances  which 
are  made  for  it.  It  will  have  to  make  the  best  of  these 
circumstances,  neutralize  their  inconveniences  and  utilize 
their  advantages — in  short,  respond  to  outer  actions  by 
building  up  a machine  which  has  no  resemblance  to  them. 
Such  adapting  is  not  repeating,  but  replying, — an  entirely 
different  thing.  If  there  is  still  adaptation,  it  will  be  in 
the  sense  in  which  one  may  say  of  the  solution  of  a problem 
of  geometry,  for  example,  that  it  is  adapted  to  the  con- 
ditions. I grant  indeed  that  adaptation  so  understood 
explains  why  different  evolutionary  processes  result  in 
similar  forms:  the  same  problem,  of  course,  calls  for  the 
same  solution.  But  it  is  necessary  then  to  introduce, 
as  for  the  solution  of  a problem  of  geometry,  an  intelligent 
activity,  or  at  least  a cause  which  behaves  in  the  same  way. 
This  is  to  bring  in  finality  again,  and  a finality  this  time 
more  than  ever  charged  with  anthropomorphic  elements. 
In  a word,  if  the  adaptation  is  passive,  if  it  is  mere  repetition 
in  the  relief  of  what  the  conditions  give  in  the  mold,  it 
will  build  up  nothing  that  one  tries  to  make  it  build ; and 
if  it  is  active,  capable  of  responding  by  a calculated  solu- 
tion to  the  problem  which  is  set  out  in  the  conditions, 
that  is  going  further  than  we  do — too  far,  indeed,  in  our 
opinion — in  the  direction  we  indicated  in  the  beginning. 
But  the  truth  is  that  there  is  a surreptitious  passing  from 
one  of  these  two  meanings  to  the  other,  a flight  for  refuge 
to  the  first  whenever  one  is  about  to  be  caught  in  flagrante 
delicto  of  finalism  by  employing  the  second.  It  is  really 


I.l 


THE  QUEST  OF  A CRITERION 


59 


the  second  which  serves  the  usual  practice  of  science,  but 
it  is  the  first  that  generally  provides  its  philosophy.  In 
any  'particular  case  one  talks  as  if  the  process  of  adaptation 
were  an  effort  of  the  organism  to  build  up  a machine 
capable  of  turning  external  circumstances  to  the  best 
possible  account : then  one  speaks  of  adaptation  in  general 
as  if  it  were  the  very  impress  of  circumstances,  passively 
received  by  an  indifferent  matter. 

But  let  us  come  to  the  examples.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing first  to  institute  here  a general  comparison  between 
plants  and  animals.  One  cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  the 
parallel  progress  which  has  been  accomplished,  on  both 
sides,  in  the  direction  of  sexuality.  Not  only  is  fecunda- 
tion itself  the  same  in  higher  plants  and  in  animals,  since 
it  consists,  in  both,  in  the  union  of  two  nuclei  that  differ 
in  their  properties  and  structure  before  their  union  and 
immediately  after  become  equivalent  to  each  other;  but 
the  preparation  of  sexual  elements  goes  on  in  both  under 
like  conditions : it  consists  essentially  in  the  reduction  of  the 
number  of  chromosomes  and  the  rejection  of  a certain 
quantity  of  chromatic  substance.^  Yet  vegetables  and 
animals  have  evolved  on  independent  lines,  favored  by 
unlike  circumstances,  opposed  by  unlike  obstacles.  Here 
are  two  great  series  which  have  gone  on  diverging.  On 
either  line,  thousands  and  thousands  of  causes  have  com- 
bined to  determine  the  morphological  and  functional 
evolution.  Yet  these  infinitely  complicated  causes  have 
been  consummated,  in  each  series,  in  the  same  effect.  And 
this  effect  could  hardly  be  called  a phenomenon  of  “adapt- 
ation’’: where  is  the  adaptation,  where  is  the  pressure 
of  external  circumstances?  There  is  no  striking  utility 

1 P.  Guerin,  Les  Connaissances  actuelles  sur  la  fecondation  chez  les 
phanerogames,  Paris,  1904,  pp.  144-148.  Cf.  Delage,  UHeredite, 
2nd  edition,  1903,  pp.  140  ff. 


60 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  sexual  generation;  it  has  been  interpreted  in  the  most 
diverse  ways;  and  some  very  acute  enquirers  even  regard 
the  sexuality  of  the  plant,  at  least,  as  a luxury  which  nature 
might  have  dispensed  with.^  But  we  do  not  wish  to  dwell 
on  facts  so  disputed.  The  ambiguity  of  the  term  “ adapta- 
tion,’’ and  the  necessity  of  transcending  both  the  point 
of  view  of  mechanical  causality  and  that  of  anthropomor- 
phic finality,  will  stand  out  more  clearly  with  simpler 
examples.  At  all  times  the  doctrine  of  finality  has  laid 
much  stress  on  the  marvellous  stmcture  of  the  sense- 
organs,  in  order  to  liken  the  work  of  nature  to  that  of  an 
intelligent  workman.  Now,  since  these  organs  are  found, 
in  a rudimentary  state,  in  the  lower  animals,  and  since 
nature  offers  us  many  intermediaries  between  the  pig- 
ment-spot of  the  simplest  organisms  and  the  infinitely 
complex  eye  of  the  vertebrates,  it  may  just  as  well  be 
alleged  that  the  result  has  been  brought  about  by  natural 
selection  perfecting  the  organ  automatically.  In  short, 
if  there  is  a case  in  which  it  seems  justifiable  to  invoke 
adaptation,  it  is  this  particular  one.  For  there  may  be 
discussion  about  the  function  and  meaning  of  such  a thing 
as  sexual  generation,  in  so  far  as  it  is  related  to  the  con- 
ditions in  which  it  occurs;  but  the  relation  of  the  eye  to 
light  is  obvious,  and  when  we  call  this  relation  an  adapta- 
tion, we  must  know  what  we  mean.  If,  then,  we  can  show, 
in  this  privileged  case,  the  insufficiency  of  the  principles 
invoked  on  both  sides,  our  demonstration  wfill  at  once 
have  reached  a high  degree  of  generality. 

Let  us  consider  the  example  on  which  the  advocates 
of  finality  have  always  insisted:  the  structure  of  such 
an  organ  as  the  human  eye.  They  have  had  no  diffi- 

* Mobius,  Beitrdge  ^ur  Lehre  von  der  Fortpfianzung  der  Gewdchse, 
Jena,  1897,  pp.  203-206  in  particular.  Cf . Hartog,  ‘ ‘ Sur  les  ph4nomenes 
de  reproduction”  {Annie  hiologique^  1895,  pp.  707-709). 


I.] 


THE  CHOICE  OF  AN  EXAMPLE 


61 


culty  in  showing  that  in  this  extremely  complicated  ap- 
paratus all  the  elements  are  marvelously  co-ordinated. 
In  order  that  \dsion  shall  operate,  says  the  author  of  a well- 
known  book  on  Final  Causes,  “the  sclerotic  membrane 
must  become  transparent  in  one  point  of  its  surface,  so 
as  to  enable  luminous  rays  to  pierce  it  ; the  cornea 
must  correspond  exactly  with  the  opening  of  the  socket 
. . .;  behind  this  transparent  opening  there  must  be 
refracting  media  . . .;  there  must  be  a retina^  at  the 
extremity  of  the  dark  chamber  . . .;  perpendicular  to 
the  retina  there  must  be  an  innumerable  quantity  of  trans- 
parent cones  permitting  only  the  light  directed  in  the  line 
of  their  axes  to  reach  the  nervous  membrane,  ^ etc.  etc.  In 
reply,  the  advocate  of  final  causes  has  been  invited  to 
assume  the  evolutionist  hypothesis.  Everything  is  mar- 
velous, indeed,  if  one  consider  an  eye  like  ours,  in  which 
thousands  of  elements  are  coordinated  in  a single  function. 
But  take  the  function  at  its  origin,  in  the  Infusorian,  where 
it  is  reduced  to  the  mere  impressionability  (almost  purely 
chemical)  of  a pigment-spot  to  light:  this  function,  pos- 
sibly only  an  accidental  fact  in  the  beginning,  may  have 
brought  about  a slight  complication  of  the  organ,  which 
again  induced  an  improvement  of  the  function.  It  may 
have  done  this  either  directly,  through  some  unknown 
mechanism,  or  indirectly,  merely  through  the  effect  of 
the  advantages  it  brought  to  the  living  being  and  the  hold 
it  thus  offered  to  natural  selection.  Thus  the  progressive 
formation  of  an  eye  as  well  contrived  as  ours  would  be 
explained  by  an  almost  infinite  number  of  actions  and  re- 
actions between  the  function  and  the  organ,  vfithout  the 
intervention  of  other  than  mechanical  causes. 

The  question  is  hard  to  decide,  indeed,  when  put  di- 

1 Paul  Janet,  Les  Causes  finales^  Paris,  1876,  p.  83. 

2 Ibid.  p.  80. 


62 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


rectly  between  the  function  and  the  organ,  as  is  done  in 
the  doctrine  of  finality,  as  also  mechanism  itself  does.  For 
organ  and  function  are  terms  of  different  nature,  and  each 
conditions  the  other  so  closely  that  it  is  impossible  to  say 
a 'priori  wRether  in  expressing  their  relation  we  should 
begin  with  the  first,  as  does  mechanism,  or  with  the  second, 
as  finalism  requires.  But  the  discussion  would  take  an 
entirely  different  turn,  we  think,  if  we  began  by  comparing 
together  two  terms  of  the  same  nature,  an  organ  with 
an  organ,  instead  of  an  organ  with  its  function.  In  this 
case/  it  would  be  possible  to  proceed  little  by  little  to  a 
solution  more  and  more  plausible,  and  there  would  be 
the  more  chance  of  a successful  issue  the  more  resolutely 
we  assumed  the  evolutionist  hypothesis. 

Let  us  place  side  by  side  the  eye  of  a vertebrate  and 
that  of  a mollusc  such  as  the  common  Pecten.  We  find 
the  same  essential  parts  in  each,  composed  of  analogous 
elements.  The  eye  of  the  Pecten  presents  a retina,  a 
cornea,  a lens  of  cellular  structure  like  our  own.  There 
is  even  that  peculiar  inversion  of  retinal  elements  which 
is  not  met  with,  in  general,  in  the  retina  of  the  inverte- 
brates. Now,  the  origin  of  molluscs  may  be  a debated 
question,  but,  whatever  opinion  we  hold,  all  are  agreed 
that  molluscs  and  vertebrates  separated  from  their  common 
parent-stem  long  before  the  appearance  of  an  eye  so  com- 
plex as  that  of  the  Pecten.  Whence,  then,  the  structural 
analogy? 

Let  us  question  on  this  point  the  two  opposed  systems 
of  evolutionist  explanation  in  turn — ^the  hypothesis  of 
purely  accidental  variations,  and  that  of  a variation  di- 
rected in  a definite  way  under  the  influence  of  external 
conditions. 

The  first,  as  is  w^ell  known,  is  presented  to-day  in  two 
quite  different  forms.  Darwin  spoke  of  very  slight  vari- 


i.i 


THE  CHOICE  OF  AN  EXAMPLE 


63 


at  ions  being  accumulated  by  natural  selection.  He  was 
not  ignorant  of  the  facts  of  sudden  variation;  but  he  thought 
these  “sports/’  as  he  called  them,  were  only  monstrosities 
incapable  of  perpetuating  themselves;  and  he  accounted 
for  the  genesis  of  species  by  an  accumulation  of  insensible 
variations. » Such  is  still  the  opinion  of  many  naturalists. 
It  is  tending,  however,  to  give  way  to  the  opposite  idea 
that  a new  species  comes  into  being  all  at  once  by  the 
simultaneous  appearance  of  several  new  characters,  all 
somewhat  different  from  the  previous  ones.  This  latter 
hypothesis,  already  proposed  by  various  authors,  notably 
by  Bateson  in  a remarkable  book,^  has  become  deeply 
significant  and  acquired  great  force  since  the  striking  ex- 
periments of  Hugo  de  Vries.  This  botanist,  working  on 
the  (Enothera  Lamarckiana,  obtained  at  the  end  of  a few 
generations  a certain  number  of  new  species.  The  theory 
he  deduces  from  his  experiments  is  of  the  highest  interest. 
Species  pass  through  alternate  periods  of  stability  and 
transformation.  When  the  period  of  “mutability”  occurs, 
unexpected  forms  spring  forth  in  a great  number  of  differ- 
ent directions.^ — We  will  not  attempt  to  take  sides  be- 
tween this  hypothesis  and  that  of  insensible  variations. 
Indeed,  perhaps  both  are  partly  true.  We  wish  merely 
to  point  out  that  if  the  variations  invoked  are  accidental, 
they  do  not,  whether  small  or  great,  account  for  a similar- 
ity of  structure  such  as  we  have  cited. 

Let  us  assume,  to  begin  with,  the  Darwinian  theory  of 
insensible  variations,  and  suppose  the  occurrence  of  small 
differences  due  to  chance,  and  continually  accumulating. 

1 Darwin,  Origin  of  Species,  chap.  ii. 

2 Bateson,  Materials  for  the  Study  of  Variation,  London,  1894,  es- 
pecially pp.  567  ff.  Cf.  Scott,  “Variations  and  Mutations”  {American 
Journal  of  Science,  Nov.  1894). 

^ De  Vries,  Die  Mutationstheorie,  Leipzig,  1901-1903.  Gf.,  by  the 
same  author,  Species  and  Varieties,  Chicago,  1905. 


64 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  all  the  parts  of  an  organism 
are  necessarily  coordinated.  Whether  the  function  be 
the  effect  of  the  organ  or  its  cause,  it  matters  little;  one 
point  is  certain — the  organ  will  be  of  no  use  and  will  not 
give  selection  a hold  unless  it  functions.  However  the 
minute  structure  of  the  retina  may  develop,  and  however 
complicated  it  may  become,  such  progress,  instead  of 
favoring  vision,  will  probably  hinder  it  if  the  visual  centres 
do  not  develop  at  the  same  time,  as  well  as  several  parts  of 
the  visual  organ  itself.  If  the  variations  are  accidental, 
how  can  they  ever  agree  to  arise  in  every  part  of  the  organ 
at  the  same  time,  in  such  way  that  the  organ  will  con- 
tinue to  perform  its  function?  Darwin  quite  understood 
this;  it  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  he  regarded  variation 
as  insensible. ‘ For  a difference  which  arises  accidentally 
at  one  point  of  the  visual  apparatus,  if  it  be  very  slight, 
will  not  hinder  the  functioning  of  the  organ;  and  hence 
this  first  accidental  variation  can,  in  a sense,  wait  for  comple- 
mentary variations  to  accumulate  and  raise  vision  to  a 
higher  degree  of  perfection.  Granted;  but  while  the 
insensible  variation  does  not  hinder  the  functioning  of 
the  eye,  neither  does  it  help  it,  so  long  as  the  variations 
that  are  complementary  do  not  occur.  How,  in  that  case, 
can  the  variation  be  retained  by  natural  selection?  Un- 
wittingly one  will  reason  as  if  the  slight  variation  w^ere  a 
toothing  stone  set  up  by  the  organism  and  reserved  for  a 
later  construction.  This  hypothesis,  so  little  conformable 
to  the  Darwinian  principle,  is  difficult  enough  to  avoid 
even  in  the  case  of  an  organ  which  has  been  developed  along 
one  single  main  line  of  evolution,  e.g.  the  vertebrate  eye. 
But  it  is  absolutely  forced  upon  us  when  we  observe  the 
likeness  of  structure  of  the  vertebrate  eye  and  that  of  the 
molluscs.  How  could  the  same  small  variations,  incal- 
* Dar'win,  Origin  of  Species,  chap.  vi. 


I.l 


INSENSIBLE  VARIATION 


65 


culable  in  number,  have  ever  occurred  in  the  same  order 
on  two  independent  lines  of  evolution,  if  they  were  purely 
accidental?  And  how  could  they  have  been  preserved 
by  selection  and  accumulated  in  both  cases,  the  same  in 
the  same  order,  when  each  of  them,  taken  separately, 
was  of  no  use? 

Let  us  turn,  then,  to  the  hypothesis  of  sudden  varia- 
tions, and  see  whether  it  will  solve  the  problem.  It  cer- 
tainly lessens  the  difficulty  on  one  point,  but  it  makes  it 
much  worse  on  another.  If  the  eye  of  the  mollusc  and 
that  of  the  vertebrate  have  both  been  raised  to  their 
present  form  by  a relatively  small  number  of  sudden 
leaps,  I have  less  difficulty  in  understanding  the  resemblance 
of  the  two  organs  than  if  this  resemblance  were  due  to 
an  incalculable  number  of  infinitesimal  resemblances 
acquired  successively:  in  both  cases  it  is  chance  that 
operates,  but  in  the  second  case  chance  is  not  required 
to  work  the  miracle  it  would  have  to  perform  in  the  first. 
Not  only  is  the  number  of  resemblances  to  be  added  some- 
what reduced,  but  I can  also  understand  better  how  each 
could  be  preserved  and  added  to  the  others;  for  the  ele- 
mentary variation  is  now  considerable  enough  to  be  an 
advantage  to  the  living  being,  and  so  to  lend  itself  to 
the  play  of  selection.  But  here  there  arises  another 
problem,  no  less  formidable,  viz.,  how  do  all  the  parts 
of  the  visual  apparatus,  suddenly  changed,  remain  so 
well  coordinated  that  the  eye  continues  to  exercise  its 
function?  For  the  change  of  one  part  alone  will  make 
vision  impossible,  unless  this  change  is  absolutely  infinitesi- 
mal. The  parts  must  then  all  change  at  once,  each  con- 
sulting the  others.  I agree  that  a great  number  of  un- 
coordinated variations  may  indeed  have  arisen  in  less 
fortunate  individuals,  that  natural  selection  may  have 
eliminated  these,  and  that  only  the  combination  fit  to 


66 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


endure,  capable  of  preserving  and  improving  vision,  has 
survived.  Still,  this  combination  had  to  be  produced. 
And,  supposing  chance  to  have  granted  this  favor  once, 
can  we  admit  that  it  repeats  the  self-same  favor  in  the 
course  of  the  history  of  a species,  so  as  to  give  rise,  every 
time,  all  at  once,  to  new  complications  marvelously  regu- 
lated with  reference  to  each  other,  and  so  related  to  former 
complications  as  to  go  further  on  in  the  same  direction? 
How,  especially,  can  we  suppose  that  by  a series  of  mere 
“accidents”  these  sudden  variations  occur,  the  same, 
in  the  same  order, — involving  in  each  case  a perfect  har- 
mony of  elements  more  and  more  numerous  and  complex — 
along  two  independent  lines  of  evolution? 

The  law  of  correlation  will  be  invoked,  of  course;  Dar- 
win himself  appealed  to  it.^  It  will  be  alleged  that  a 
change  is  not  localized  in  a single  point  of  the  organism, 
but  has  its  necessary  recoil  on  other  points.  The  ex- 
amples cited  by  Darwin  remain  classic:  white  cats  with 
blue  eyes  are  generally  deaf;  hairless  dogs  have  imperfect 
dentition,  etc. — Granted;  but  let  us  not  play  now  on  the 
word  “ correlation.  ” A collective  whole  of  solidary  changes 
is  one  thing,  a system  of  complementary  changes — changes 
so  coordinated  as  to  keep  up  and  even  improve  the  function- 
ing of  an  organ  under  more  complicated  conditions — is 
another.  That  an  anomaly  of  the  pilous  system  should 
be  accompanied  by  an  anomaly  of  dentition  is  quite 
conceivable  without  our  having  to  call  for  a special  princi- 
ple of  explanation;  for  hair  and  teeth  are  similar  forma- 
tions, =*  and  the  same  chemical  change  of  the  germ  that 
hinders  the  formation  of  hair  would  probably  obstruct 

1 Darwin,  Origin  of  Species,  chap.  i. 

2 On  this  homology  of  hair  and  teeth,  see  Brandt,  “Uber  . . . eine 
mutmassliche  Homologie  der  Haare  und  Zahne”  (Biol.  Centralhlatt, 
vol.  xviii.,  1898,  especially  pp.  262  ff.). 


I.] 


SUDDEN  VARIATION 


67 


that  of  teeth:  it  may  be  for  the  same  sort  of  reason  that 
white  cats  with  blue  eyes  are  deaf.  In  these  different 
examples  the  “correlative”  changes  are  only  solidary 
changes  (not  to  mention  the  fact  that  they  are  really 
lesions,  namely,  diminutions  or  suppressions,  and  not 
additions,  which  makes  a great  difference).  But  when  we 
speak  of  “correlative”  changes  occurring  suddenly  in 
the  different  parts  of  the  eye,  we  use  the  w^ord  in  an  entirely 
new  sense:  this  time  there  is  a whole  set  of  changes  not 
only  simultaneous,  not  only  bound  together  by  community 
of  origin,  but  so  coordinated  that  the  organ  keeps  on  per- 
forming the  same  simple  function,  and  even  performs  it 
better.  That  a change  in  the  germ,  which  influences  the 
formation  of  the  retina,  may  affect  at  the  same  time  also 
the  formation  of  the  cornea,  the  iris,  the  lens,  the  visual 
centres,  etc.,  I admit,  if  necessary,  although  they  are  forma- 
tions that  differ  much  more  from  one  another  in  their 
original  nature  than  do  probably  hair  and  teeth.  But 
that  all  these  simultaneous  changes  should  occur  in  such 
a w^ay  as  to  improve  or  even  merely  maintain  vision,  this 
is  what,  in  the  hypothesis  of  sudden  variation,  I cannot 
admit,  unless  a m3^sterious  principle  is  to  come  in,  whose 
duty  it  is  to  watch  over  the  interest  of  the  function.  But 
this  would  be  to  give  up  the  idea  of  “accidental”  variation. 
In  reality,  these  two  senses  of  the  word  “correlation”  are 
often  interchanged  in  the  mind  of  the  biologist,  just  like 
the  two  senses  of  the  word  “adaptation.”  And  the  con- 
fusion is  almost  legitimate  in  botany,  that  science  in  which 
the  theory  of  the  formation  of  species  by  sudden  variation 
rests  on  the  firmest  experimental  basis.  In  vegetables, 
function  is  far  less  narrowly  bound  to  form  than  in  animals. 
Even  profound  morphological  differences,  such  as  a change 
in  the  form  of  leaves,  have  no  appreciable  influence  on 
the  exercise  of  function,  and  so  do  not  require  a whole 


68 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


system  of  complementary  changes  for  the  plant  to  remain 
fit  to  survive.  But  it  is  not  so  in  the  animal,  especially 
in  the  case  of  an  organ  like  the  eye,  a very  complex  struc- 
ture and  very  delicate  function.  Here  it  is  impossible 
to  identify  changes  that  are  simply  solidary  with  changes 
which  are  also  complementary.  The  two  senses  of  the 
word  “correlation’’  must  be  carefully  distinguished;  it 
would  be  a downright  paralogism  to  adopt  one  of  them 
in  the  premisses  of  the  reasoning,  and  the  other  in  the  con- 
clusion. And  this  is  just  what  is  done  when  the  principle 
of  correlation  is  invoked  in  explanations  of  detail  in  order 
to  account  for  complementary  variations,  and  then  cor- 
relation in  general  is  spoken  of  as  if  it  were  any  group  of 
variations  provoked  by  any  variation  of  the  germ.  Thus, 
the  notion  of  correlation  is  first  used  in  current  science 
as  it  might  be  used  by  an  advocate  of  finality ; it  is  under- 
stood that  this  is  only  a convenient  way  of  expressing  one- 
self, that  one  will  correct  it  and  fall  back  on  pure  mechan- 
ism when  explaining  the  nature  of  the  principles  and  turn- 
ing from  science  to  philosophy.  And  one  does  then  come 
back  to  pure  mechanism,  but  only  by  giving  a new  meaning 
to  the  word  “correlation” — a meaning  which  would  now 
make  correlation  inapplicable  to  the  detail  it  is  called 
upon  to  explain. 

To  sum  up,  if  the  accidental  variations  that  bring  about 
evolution  are  insensible  variations,  some  good  genius  must 
be  appealed  to — the  genius  of  the  future  species — in  order 
to  preserve  and  accumulate  these  variations,  for  selection 
will  not  look  after  this.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  acci- 
dental variations  are  sudden,  then,  for  the  previous  function 
to  go  on  or  for  a new  function  to  take  its  place,  all  the 
changes  that  have  happened  together  must  be  comple- 
mentary. So  we  have  to  fall  back  on  the  good  genius 
again,  this  time  to  obtain  the  convergence  of  simidtaneous 


I.l 


ORTHOGENESIS 


69 


changes,  as  before  to  be  assured  of  the  continuity  of  di- 
rection of  successive  variations.  But  in  neither  case  can 
parallel  development  of  the  same  complex  structures  on 
independent  lines  of  evolution  be  due  to  a mere  accu- 
mulation of  accidental  variations.  So  we  come  to  the 
second  of  the  two  great  hypotheses  we  have  to  examine. 
Suppose  the  variations  are  due,  not  to  accidental  and  inner 
causes,  but  to  the  direct  influence  of  outer  circumstances. 
Let  us  see  what  line  we  should  have  to  take,  on  this  hypothe- 
sis, to  account  for  the  resemblance  of  eye-structure  in 
two  series  that  are  independent  of  each  other  from  the 
phylogenetic  point  of  view. 

Though  molluscs  and  vertebrates  have  evolved  separately, 
both  have  remained  exposed  to  the  influence  of  light.  And 
light  is  a physical  cause  bringing  forth  certain  definite  effects. 
Acting  in  a continuous  way,  it  has  been  able  to  produce 
a continuous  variation  in  a constant  direction.  Of  course 
it  is  unlikely  that  the  eye  of  the  vertebrate  and  that  of  the 
mollusc  have  been  built  up  by  a series  of  variations  due  to 
simple  chance.  Admitting  even  that  light  enters  into 
the  case  as  an  instrument  of  selection,  in  order  to  allow 
only  useful  variations  to  persist,  there  is  no  possibility 
that  the  play  of  chance,  even  thus  supervised  from  with- 
out, should  bring  about  in  both  cases  the  same  juxta- 
position of  elements  coordinated  in  the  same  way.  But  it 
would  be  different  supposing  that  light  acted  directly  on  the 
organized  matter  so  as  to  change  its  structure  and  some- 
how adapt  this  structure  to  its  own  form.  The  resemblance 
of  the  two  effects  wmuld  then  be  explained  by  the  identity 
of  the  cause.  The  more  and  more  complex  eye  would  be 
something  like  the  deeper  and  deeper  imprint  of  light  on  a 
matter  which,  being  organized,  possesses  a special  aptitude 
for  receiving  it. 

But  can  an  organic  structure  be  likened  to  an  imprint? 


70 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


We  have  already  called  attention  to  the  ambiguity  of 
the  term  ‘^adaptation.”  The  gradual  complication  of  a 
form  which  is  being  better  and  better  adapted  to  the  mold 
of  outward  circumstances  is  one  thing,  the  increasingly 
complex  structure  of  an  instrument  which  derives  more  and 
more  advantage  from  these  circumstances  is  another.  In 
the  former  case,  the  matter  merely  receives  an  imprint; 
in  the  second,  it  reacts  positively,  it  solves  a problem.  Ob- 
viously it  is  this  second  sense  of  the  word  “adapt”  that 
is  used  when  one  says  that  the  eye  has  become  better  and 
better  adapted  to  the  influence  of  light.  But  one  passes 
more  or  less  unconsciously  from  this  sense  to  the  other,  and 
a purely  mechanistic  biology  will  strive  to  make  the  passive 
adaptation  of  an  inert  matter,  which  submits  to  the  in- 
fluence of  its  environment,  mean  the  same  as  the  active 
adaptation  of  an  organism  which  derives  from  this  in- 
fluence an  advantage  it  can  appropriate.  It  must  be 
owned,  indeed,  that  Nature  herself  appears  to  invite  our 
mind  to  confuse  these  two  kinds  of  adaptation,  for  she 
usually  begins  by  a passive  adaptation  where,  later  on, 
she  will  build  up  a mechanism  for  active  response.  Thus, 
in  the  case  before  us,  it  is  unquestionable  that  the  first 
rudiment  of  the  eye  is  found  in  the  pigment-spot  of  the 
lower  organisms;  this  spot  may  indeed  have  been  pro- 
duced physically,  by  the  mere  action  of  light,  and  there  are 
a great  number  of  intermediaries  between  the  simple  spot 
of  pigment  and  a complicated  eye  like  that  of  the  verte- 
brates.— But,  from  the  fact  that  we  pass  from  one  thing 
to  another  by  degrees,  it  does  not  follow  that  the  two 
things  are  of  the  same  nature.  From  the  fact  that  an 
orator  falls  in,  at  first,  with  the  passions  of  his  audience 
in  order  to  make  himself  master  of  them,  it  will  not  be 
concluded  that  to  follow  is  the  same  as  to  lead.  Now,  liv- 
ins  matter  seems  to  have  no  other  means  of  turning  cir- 


I.l 


ORTHOGENESIS 


71 


cumstances  to  good  account  than  by  adapting  itself  to 
them  passively  at  the  outset.  WTiere  it  has  to  direct  a 
movement,  it  begins  by  adopting  it.  Life  proceeds  by 
insinuation.  The  intermediate  degrees  between  a pig- 
ment-spot and  an  eye  are  nothing  to  the  point:  however 
numerous  the  degrees,  there  will  still  be  the  same  interval 
between  the  pigment-spot  and  the  eye  as  between  a photo- 
graph and  a photographic  apparatus.  Certainly  the  photo- 
graph has  been  gradually  turned  into  a photographic 
apparatus;  but  could  light  alone,  a physical  force,  ever 
have  provoked  this  change,  and  converted  an  impression 
left  by  it  into  a machine  capable  of  using  it? 

It  may  be  claimed  that  considerations  of  utility  are 
out  of  place  here;  that  the  eye  is  not  made  to  see,  but  that 
we  see  because  we  have  eyes;  that  the  organ  is  what  it  is, 
and  “ utility  ” is  a word  by  which  we  designate  the  functional 
effects  of  the  structure.  But  when  I say  that  the  eye 
“makes  use  of”  light,  I do  not  merely  mean  that  the  eye 
is  capable  of  seeing;  I allude  to  the  very  precise  relations 
that  exist  between  this  organ  and  the  apparatus  of  lo- 
comotion. The  retina  of  vertebrates  is  prolonged  in  an 
optic  nerve,  which,  again,  is  continued  by  cerebral  centres 
connected  with  motor  mechanisms.  Our  eye  makes  use 
of  light  in  that  it  enables  us  to  utilize,  by  movements  of 
reaction,  the  objects  that  we  see  to  be  advantageous,  and 
to  avoid  those  which  we  see  to  be  injurious.  Now,  of 
course,  as  light  may  have  produced  a pigment-spot  by 
physical  means,  so  it  can  physially  determine  the  move- 
ments of  certain  organisms;  ciliated  Infusoria,  for  in- 
stance, react  to  light.  But  no  one  would  hold  that  the 
influence  of  light  has  physically  caused  the  formation  of 
a nervous  system,  of  a muscular  system,  of  an  osseous 
system,  all  things  which  are  continuous  with  the  apparatus 
of  vision  in  vertebrate  animals.  The  truth  is,  when  one 


72 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


speaks  of  the  gradual  formation  of  the  eye,  and,  still  more, 
when  one  takes  into  account  all  that  is  inseparably  con- 
nected with  it,  one  brings  in  something  entirely  different 
from  the  direct  action  of  light.  One  implicitly  attributes 
to  organized  matter  a certain  capacity  sui  generis,  the 
mysterious  power  of  building  up  very  complicated  machines 
to  utilize  the  simple  excitation  that  it  undergoes. 

But  this  is  just  what  is  claimed  to  be  unnecessary. 
Physics  and  chemistry  are  said  to  give  us  the  key  to  every- 
thing. Eimer’s  great  work  is  instructive  in  this  respect. 
It  is  well  knowm  what  persevering  effort  this  biologist 
has  devoted  to  demonstrating  that  transformation  is 
brought  about  by  the  influence  of  the  external  on  the  in- 
ternal, continuously  exerted  in  the  same  direction,  and 
not,  as  Darwin  held,  by  accidental  variations.  His  theory 
rests  on  observations  of  the  highest  interest,  of  which  the 
starting-point  was  the  study  of  the  course  followed  by 
the  color  variation  of  the  skin  in  certain  lizards.  Before 
this,  the  already  old  experiments  of  Dorfmeister  had 
shown  that  the  same  chiysalis,  according  as  it  was  sub- 
mitted to  cold  or  heat,  gave  rise  to  very  different  butter- 
flies, which  had  long  been  regarded  as  independent  species, 
Vanessa  levana  and  Vanessa  prorsa:  an  intermediate  tem- 
perature produces  an  intermediate  form.  We  might  class 
with  these  facts  the  important  transformations  observed 
in  a little  crustacean,  Artemia  salina,  when  the  salt  of 
the  water  it  lives  in  is  increased  or  diminished.*  In  these 
various  experiments  the  external  agent  seems  to  act  as  a 
cause  of  transformation.  But  what  does  the  word  “ cause” 

1 It  seems,  from  later  observations,  that  the  transformation  of 
Artemia  is  a more  complex  phenomenon  than  was  first  supposed. 
See  on  this  subject  Samter  and  Heymons,  ‘‘Die  Variation  bei  Artemia 
Salina”  {Anhang  zu  den  Abhandlungen  der  k.  preussischen  Akad.  der 
Wissenschaften,  1902). 


I.] 


ORTHOGENESIS 


73 


mean  here?  Without  undertaking  an  exhaustive  analysis 
of  the  idea  of  causality,  we  will  merely  remark  that  three 
very  different  meanings  of  this  term  are  commonly  con- 
fused. A cause  may  act  by  impelling,  releasing,  or  un- 
winding. The  billiard-ball,  that  strikes  another,  deter- 
mines its  movement  by  impelling.  The  spark  that  explodes 
the  powder  acts  by  releasing.  The  gradual  relaxing  of 
the  spring,  that  makes  the  phonograph  turn,  unwinds  the 
melody  inscribed  on  the  cylinder:  if  the  melody  which  is 
played  be  the  effect,  and  the  relaxing  of  the  spring  the 
cause,  we  must  say  that  the  cause  acts  by  unwinding. 
What  distinguishes  these  three  cases  from  each  other  is 
the  greater  or  less  solidarity  between  the  cause  and  the  effect. 
In  the  first,  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  effect  vary 
with  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  cause.  In  the  second, 
neither  quality  nor  quantity  of  the  effect  varies  with  quality 
and  quantity  of  the  cause:  the  effect  is  invariable.  In 
the  third,  the  quantity  of  the  effect  depends  on  the  quantity 
of  the  cause,  but  the  cause  does  not  influence  the  quality  of 
the  effect:  the  longer  the  cylinder  turns  by  the  action 
of  the  spring,  the  more  of  the  melody  I shall  hear,  but  the 
nature  of  the  melody,  or  of  the  part  heard,  does  not  depend 
on  the  action  of  the  spring.  Only  in  the  first  case,  really, 
does  cause  explain  effect;  in  the  others  the  effect  is  more 
or  less  given  in  advance,  and  the  antecedent  invoked  is — 
in  different  degrees,  of  course — its  occasion  rather  than 
its  cause.  Now,  in  saying  that  the  saltness  of  the  water 
is  the  cause  of  the  transformations  of  Artemia,  or  that  the 
degree  of  temperature  determines  the  color  and  marks 
of  the  wings  which  a certain  chrysalis  will  assume  on  be- 
coming a butterfly,  is  the  word  “ cause used  in  the  first 
sense?  Obviously  not : causality  has  here  an  intermediary 
sense  between  those  of  unwinding  and  releasing.  Such, 
indeed,  seems  to  be  Eimer’s  own  meaning  wRen  he  speaks 


74 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


of  the  “kaleidoscopic”  character  of  the  variation^  or 
when  he  says  that  the  variation  of  organized  matter  works 
in  a definite  way,  just  as  inorganic  matter  crystallizes  in 
definite  directions.  ^ And  it  may  be  granted,  perhaps, 
that  the  process  is  a merely  physical  and  chemical  one  in 
the  case  of  the  color-changes  of  the  skin.  But  if  this  sort 
of  explanation  is  extended  to  the  case  of  the  gradual  forma- 
tion of  the  eye  of  the  vertebrate,  for  instance,  it  must  be 
supposed  that  the  physico-chemistry  of  living  bodies  is 
such  that  the  influence  of  light  has  caused  the  organism 
to  construct  a progressive  series  of  visual  apparatus,  all 
extremely  complex,  yet  all  capable  of  seeing,  and  of  seeing 
better  and  better.^  What  more  could  the  most  confirmed 
finalist  say,  in  order  to  mark  out  so  exceptional  a physico- 
chemistry?  And  will  not  the  position  of  a mechanistic 
philosophy  become  still  more  difficult,  when  it  is  pointed 
out  to  it  that  the  egg  of  a mollusc  cannot  have  the  same 
chemical  composition  as  that  of  a vertebrate,  that  the 
organic  substance  which  evolved  toward  the  first  of  these 
two  forms  could  not  have  been  chemically  identical  wdth 
that  of  the  substance  which  went  in  the  other  direction, 
and  that,  nevertheless,  under  the  influence  of  light,  the 
same  organ  has  been  constructed  in  the  one  case  as  in 
the  other? 

The  more  we  reflect  upon  it,  the  more  we  shall  see  that 
this  production  of  the  same  effect  by  two  different  ac- 
cumulations of  an  enormous  number  of  small  causes  is 
contrary  to  the  principles  of  mechanistic  philosophy. 
We  have  concentrated  the  full  force  of  our  discussion  upon 
an  example  drawn  from  phylogenesis.  But  ontogenesis 
would  have  furnished  us  with  facts  no  less  cogent.  Every 

1 Eime"”,  Orthogenesis  der  Schmetterlinge,  Leipzig,  1897,  p.  24.  Cf. 
Die  Entstehung  der  Art^v,  p.  53. 

* Eimer,  Die  Entstehung  der  Arten,  Jena,  1888,  p.  25. 

* Ibid.  pp.  165  ff. 


M 


ORTHOGENESIS 


75 


moment,  right  before  our  eyes,  nature  arrives  at  identical 
results,  in  sometimes  neighboring  species,  by  entirely 
different  embryogenic  processes.  Observations  of  ‘‘heter- 
oblastia’^  have  multiplied  in  late  years, ^ and  it  has  been 
necessary  to  reject  the  almost  classical  theory  of  the 
specificity  of  embryonic  gills.  Still  keeping  to  our  compari- 
son between  the  eye  of  vertebrates  and  that  of  molluscs, 
^ve  may  point  out  that  the  retina  of  the  vertebrate  is 
produced  by  an  expansion  in  the  rudimentary  brain  of 
the  young  embryo.  It  is  a regular  nervous  centre  which 
has  moved  toward  the  periphery.  In  the  mollusc,  on  the 
contrary,  the  retina  is  derived  from  the  ectoderm  directly, 
and  not  indirectly  by  means  of  the  embryonic  encephalon. 
Quite  different,  therefore,  are  the  evolutionary  processes 
which  lead,  in  man  and  in  the  Pecten,  to  the  development 
of  a like  retina.  But,  without  going  so  far  as  to  compare 
two  organisms  so  distant  from  each  other,  we  might  reach 
the  same  conclusion  simply  by  looking  at  certain  very 
curious  facts  of  regeneration  in  one  and  the  same  organism. 
If  the  cr}^stalline  lens  of  a Triton  be  removed,  it  is  re- 
generated by  the  iris.^  Now,  the  original  lens  was  built 
out  of  the  ectoderm,  while  the  iris  is  of  mesodermic  origin. 
What  is  more,  in  the  Salamandra  maculata,  if  the  lens  be 
removed  and  the  iris  left,  the  regeneration  of  the  lens  takes 
place  at  the  upper  part  of  the  iris;  but  if  this  upper  part 
of  the  iris  itself  be  taken  away,  the  regeneration  takes 
place  in  the  inner  or  retinal  layer  of  the  remaining  region.^ 

1 Salensky,  ‘ Heteroblastie  ” {Proc.  of  the  Fourth  International  Con- 
gress of  Zoology,  London,  1899,  pp.  111-118).  Salensky  has  coined 
this  word  to  designate  the  cases  in  which  organs  that  are  equivalent, 
but  of  different  embryological  origin,  are  formed  at  the  same  points 
in  animals  related  to  each  other. 

2 Wolff,  “Die  Regeneration  der  Urodelenlinse ” (Arch.  f.  Entwick- 
elungsmechanik,  i.,  1895,  pp.  380  ff.). 

2 Fischel,  “Uber  die  Regeneration  der  Linse”  (Anat.  Anzeiger,  xiv., 
1898,  pp.  373-380). 


76 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


Thus,  parts  differently  situated,  differently  constituted, 
meant  normally  for  different  functions,  are  capable  of 
performing  the  same  duties  and  even  of  manufacturing, 
when  necessary,  the  same  pieces  of  the  machine.  Here 
we  have,  indeed,  the  same  effect  obtained  by  different 
combinations  of  causes. 

Whether  we  will  or  no,  we  must  appeal  to  some  inner 
directing  principle  in  order  to  account  for  this  convergence 
of  effects.  Such  convergence  does  not  appear  possible 
in  the  Darwinian,  and  especially  the  neo-Darwinian,  theory 
of  insensible  accidental  variations,  nor  in  the  hypothesis 
of  sudden  accidental  variations,  nor  even  in  the  theory 
that  assigns  definite  directions  to  the  evolution  of  the 
various  organs  by  a kind  of  mechanical  composition  of 
the  external  with  the  internal  forces.  So  we  come  to 
the  only  one  of  the  present  forms  of  evolution  which  re- 
mains for  us  to  mention,  viz.,  neo-Lamarckism. 

It  is  well  known  that  Lamarck  attributed  to  the  living 
being  the  power  of  varying  by  use  or  disuse  of  its  organs, 
and  also  of  passing  on  the  variation  so  acquired  to  its 
descendants.  A certain  number  of  biologists  hold  a 
doctrine  of  this  kind  to-day.  The  variation  that  results 
in  a new  species  is  not,  they  believe,  merely  an  accidental 
variation  inherent  in  the  germ  itself,  nor  is  it  governed  by  a 
determinism  sui  generis  which  develops  definite  characters 
in  a definite  direction,  apart  from  every  consideration  of 
utility.  It  springs  from  the  very  effort  of  the  living  being 
to  adapt  itself  to  the  circumstances  of  its  existence.  The 
effort  may  indeed  be  only  the  mechanical  exercise  of  cer- 
tain organs,  mechanically  elicited  by  the  pressure  of  ex- 
ternal circumstances  But  it  may  also  imply  consciousness 
and  will,  and  it  is  in  this  sense  that  it  appears  to  be  under- 
stood by  one  of  the  most  eminent  representatives  of  the 


I.J 


VARIATION  AND  HEREDITY 


77 


doctrine,  the  American  naturalist  Cope.*  Neo-Lamarckism 
is  therefore,  of  all  the  later  forms  of  evolutionism,  the  only 
one  capable  of  admitting  an  internal  and  psychological 
principle  of  development,  although  it  is  not  bound  to  do 
so.  And  it  is  also  the  only  evolutionism  that  seems  to 
us  to  account  for  the  building  up  of  identical  complex 
organs  on  independent  lines  of  development.  For  it  is 
quite  conceivable  that  the  same  effort  to  turn  the  same 
circumstances  to  good  account  might  have  the  same  result, 
especially  if  the  problem  put  by  the  circumstances  is  such 
as  to  admit  of  only  one  solution.  But  the  question  re- 
mains, whether  the  term  ‘^effort’’  must  not  then  be  taken 
in  a deeper  sense,  a sense  even  more  psychological  than 
any  neo-Lamarckian  supposes. 

For  a mere  variation  of  size  is  one  thing,  and  a change 
of  form  is  another.  That  an  organ  can  be  strengthened 
and  grow  by  exercise,  nobody  will  deny.  But  it  is  a long 
way  from  that  to  the  progressive  development  of  an  eye 
like  that  of  the  molluscs  and  of  the  vertebrates.  If  this 
development  be  ascribed  to  the  influence  of  light,  long 
continued  but  passively  received,  we  fall  back  on  the  theory 
we  have  just  criticized.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  an  internal 
activity  is  appealed  to,  then  it  must  be  something  quite 
different  from  what  we  usually  call  an  effort,  for  never 
has  an  effort  been  known  to  produce  the  slightest  com- 
plication of  an  organ,  and  yet  an  enormous  number  of 
complications,  all  admirably  coordinated,  have  been 
necessary  to  pass  from  the  pigment-spot  of  the  Infusorian 
to  the  eye  of  the  vertebrate.  But,  even  if  we  accept  this 
notion  of  the  evolutionary  process  in  the  case  of  animals, 
how  can  we  apply  it  to  plants?  Here,  variations  of  form 
do  not  seem  to  imply,  nor  always  to  lead  to,  functional 

1 Cope,  The  Origin  of  the  Fittest,  1887;  The  Primary  Factors  of  Organic 
Evolution,  1896. 


78 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


changes;  and  even  if  the  cause  of  the  variation  is  of  a 
psychological  nature,  we  can  hardly  call  it  an  effort,  unless 
we  give  a very  unusual  extension  to  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  The  truth  is,  it  is  necessary  to  dig  beneath  the  effort 
itself  and  look  for  a deeper  cause. 

This  is  especially  necessary,  we  believe,  if  we  wish  to 
get  at  a cause  of  regular  hereditary  variations.  We  are 
not  going  to  enter  here  into  the  controversies  over  the 
transmissibility  of  acquired  characters;  still  less  do  we 
wish  to  take  too  definite  a side  on  this  question,  which  is 
not  within  our  province.  But  we  cannot  remain  com- 
pletely indifferent  to  it.  Nowhere  is  it  clearer  that  phi- 
losophers can  not  to-day  content  themselves  with  vague 
generalities,  but  must  follow  the  scientists  in  experimental 
detail  and  discuss  the  results  with  them.  If  Spencer  had 
begun  by  putting  to  himself  the  question  of  the  heredita- 
bility of  acquired  characters,  his  evolutionism  would  no 
doubt  have  taken  an  altogether  different  form.  If  (as 
seems  probable  to  us)  a habit  contracted  by  the  individual 
were  transmitted  to  its  descendants  only  in  very  exceptional 
cases,  all  the  Spencerian  psychology  w^ould  need  re-making, 
and  a large  part  of  Spencer’s  philosophy  would  fall  to 
pieces.  Let  us  say,  then,  how^  the  problem  seems  to  us  to 
present  itself,  and  in  what  direction  an  attempt  might  be 
made  to  solve  it. 

After  hamng  been  affirmed  as  a dogma,  the  trans- 
missibility of  acquired  characters  has  been  no  less  dog- 
matically denied,  for  reasons  drawn  a priori  from  the 
supposed  nature  of  germinal  cells.  It  is  well  known  how 
Weismann  was  led,  by  his  hypothesis  of  the  continuity 
of  the  germ-plasm,  to  regard  the  germinal  cells — ova  and 
spermatozoa — as  almost  independent  of  the  somatic  cells. 
Starting  from  this,  it  has  been  claimed,  and  is  still  claimed 
by  m.any,  that  the  hereditary  transmission  of  an  acquired 


I.] 


VARIATION  AND  HEREDITY 


79 


character  is  inconceivable.  But  if,  perchance,  experiment 
should  show  that  acquired  characters  are  transmissible, 
it  would  prove  thereby  that  the  germ-plasm  is  not  so 
independent  of  the  somatic  envelope  as  has  been  contended, 
and  the  transmissibility  of  acquired  characters  would 
become  ipso  facto  conceivable;  which  amounts  to  saying 
that  conceivability  and  inconceivability  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  case,  and  that  experience  alone  must  settle 
the  matter.  But  it  is  just  here  that  the  difficulty  begins. 
The  acquired  characters  we  are  speaking  of  are  generally 
habits  or  the  effects  of  habit,  and  at  the  root  of  most  habits 
there  is  a natural  disposition.  So  that  one  can  always 
ask  whether  it  is  really  the  habit  acquired  by  the  soma  of 
the  individual  that  is  transmitted,  or  whether  it  is  not 
rather  a natural  aptitude,  whichfcxisted  prior  to  the  habit. 
This  aptitude  would  have  remained  inherent  in  the  germ- 
plasm  which  the  individual  bears  within  him,  as  it  was 
in  the  individual  himself  and  consequently  in  the  germ 
whence  he  sprang.  Thus,  for  instance,  there  is  no  proof 
that  the  mole  has  become  blind  because  it  has  formed  the 
habit  of  living  underground;  it  is  perhaps  because  its 
eyes  were  becoming  atrophied  that  it  condemned  itself 
to  a life  underground.*  If  this  is  the  case,  the  tendency  to 
lose  the  power  of  vision  has  been  transmitted  from  germ 
to  germ  without  anything  being  acquired  or  lost  by  the 
soma  of  the  mole  itself.  From  the  fact  that  the  son  of  a 
fencing-master  has  become  a good  fencer  much  more  quickly 
than  his  father,  we  cannot  infer  that  the  habit  of  the  parent 
has  been  transmitted  to  the  child;  for  certain  natural 
dispositions  in  course  of  growth  may  have  passed  from  the 
plasma  engendering  the  father  to  the  plasma  engendering 

* Cu^not,  “La  Nouvelle  Th^orie  transformiste ” {Revue  g&nirale  des 
sciences,  1894).  Cf.  Morgan,  Evolution  and  Adaptation,  London,  190.3, 
p.  357. 


80 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  son,  may  have  grown  on  the  way  by  the  effect  of  the 
primitive  impetus,  and  thus  assured  to  the  son  a greater 
suppleness  than  the  father  had,  without  troubling,  so  to 
speak,  about  what  the  father  did.  So  of  many  examples 
drawn  from  the  progressive  domestication  of  animals: 
it  is  hard  to  say  whether  it  is  the  acquired  habit  that  is 
transmitted  or  only  a certain  natural  tendency — that, 
indeed,  which  has  caused  such  and  such  a particular 
species  or  certain  of  its  representatives  to  be  specially 
chosen  for  domestication.  The  truth  is,  when  every 
doubtful  case,  every  fact  open  to  more  than  one  inter- 
pretation, has  been  eliminated,  there  remains  hardly  a 
single  unquestionable  example  of  acquired  and  trans- 
mitted peculiarities,  beyond  the  famous  experiments 
of  Brown-Sequard,  repeated  and  confirmed  by  other 
physiologists. » By  cutting  the  spinal  cord  or  the  sciatic 
nerve  of  guinea-pigs,  Brown-Sequard  brought  about  an 
epileptic  state  which  was  transmitted  to  the  descendants. 
Lesions  of  the  same  sciatic  nerve,  of  the  restiform  body,  etc., 
provoked  various  troubles  in  the  guinea-pig  which  its 
progeny  inherited  sometimes  in  a quite  different  form: 
exophthalmia,  loss  of  toes,  etc.  But  it  is  not  demonstrated 
that  in  these  different  cases  of  hereditary  transmission 
there  had  been  a real  influence  of  the  soma  of  the  animal 
on  its  germ-plasm.  Weismann  at  once  objected  that  the 
operations  of  Brown-Sequard  might  have  introduced  cer- 
tain special  microbes  into  the  body  of  the  guinea-pig, 
which  had  found  their  means  of  nutrition  in  the  nervous 
tissues  and  transmitted  the  malady  by  penetrating  into 
the  sexual  elements.*  This  objection  has  been  answered 

1 Brown-S6quard,  ‘ ‘ Nouvelles  recherches  sur  Fepilepsie  due  a certaines 
lesions  de  la  moelle  6pini6ere  et  des  nerfs  rachidiens"  {Arch.de  physi- 
ologic, vol.  ii.,  1866,  pp.  422,  and  497). 

2 Weismann,  Aufsdtze  uber  Vererhung,  Jena,  1892,  pp.  376-378,  and 
also  Vortrdge  uber  Descendenztheorie,  Jena,  190?-  vol.  ii.,  p.  76. 


I.l 


VARIATION  AND  HEREDITY 


81 


by  Brown-Sequard  himself;'  but  a more  plausible  one 
might  be  raised.  Some  experiments  of  Voisin  and  Peron 
have  shown  that  fits  of  epilepsy  are  followed  by  the  elimi- 
nation of  a toxic  body  which,  when  injected  into  animals,* 
is  capable  of  producing  convulsive  symptoms.  Perhaps 
the  trophic  disorders  following  the  nerve  lesions  made  by 
Brown-Sequard  correspond  to  the  formation  of  precisely 
this  con\mlsion-causing  poison.  If  so,  the  toxin  passed 
from  the  guinea-pig  to  its  spermatozoon  or  ovum,  and 
caused  in  the  development  of  the  embryo  a general  dis- 
turbance, which,  however,  had  no  visible  effects  except 
at  one  point  or  another  of  the  organism  when  developed. 
In  that  case,  what  occurred  would  have  been  somewhat 
the  same  as  in  the  experiments  of  Charrin,  Delamare, 
and  Moussu,  where  guinea-pigs  in  gestation,  whose  liver 
or  kidney  was  injured,  transmitted  the  lesion  to  their 
progeny,  simply  because  the  injury  to  the  mother’s  organ 
had  given  rise  to  specific  ‘‘cytotoxins”  which  acted  on 
the  corresponding  organ  of  the  foetus.^  It  is  true  that,  in 
these  experiments,  as  in  a former  observation  of  the  same 
physiologists,^  it  was  the  already  formed  foetus  that  was 
influenced  by  the  toxins.  But  other  researches  of  Charrin 
have  resulted  in  showing  that  the  same  effect  may  be  pro- 
duced, by  an  analogous  process,  on  the  spermatozoa  and 
the  ova.*  To  conclude,  then:  the  inheritance  of  an  ac- 

1 Brown-Sequard,  “Heredite  d’une  affection  due  a une  cause  acci- 
dentelle’'  {Arch,  de  physiologic,  1892,  pp.  686  ff.). 

* Voisin  and  Peron,  “Recherches  sur  la  toxicite  urinaire  chez  les 
epileptiques  ’ ' (Arch,  de  neurologic,  vol.  xxiv.,  1892,  and  xxv.,  1893. 
Cf.  the  work  of  Voisin,  L’^pilepsie,  Paris,  1897,  pp.  125-133). 

^ Charrin,  Delamare  and  Moussu.  “Transmission  exp4rimentale  aux 
descendants  de  lesions  developpees  chez  les  ascendants”  (C.  R.  de  VAcad. 
des  sciences,  vol.  cxxxv.,  1902,  p.  191).  Cf.  Morgan,  Evolution  and 
Adaptation,  p.  257,  and  Delage,  UHeredii6,  2nd  edition,  p.  388. 

* Charrin  and  Delamare,  “Heredite  cellulaire”  (C.  R.  de  VAcad.  des 
sciences,  vol.  cxxxiii.,  1901,  pp.  69-71). 

* Charrin,  “L'Heredite  pathologique”  {Revue  generate  des  sciences^ 
15  janvier  1896), 


82 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


quired  peculiarity  in  the  experiments  of  Brown-Sequard 
can  be  explained  by  the  effect  of  a toxin  on  the  germ.  The 
lesion,  however  well  localized  it  seems,  is  transmitted  by 
the  same  process  as,  for  instance,  the  taint  of  alcoholism. 
But  may  it  not  be  the  same  in  the  case  of  every  acquired 
peculiarity  that  has  become  hereditary? 

There  is,  indeed,  one  point  on  which  both  those  who 
affirm  and  those  who  deny  the  transmissibility  of  acquired 
characters  are  agreed,  namely,  that  certain  influences, 
such  as  that  of  alcohol,  can  affect  at  the  same  time  both 
the  living  being  and  the  germ-plasm  it  contains.  In  such 
case,  there  is  inheritance  of  a defect,  and  the  result  is 
as  if  the  soma  of  the  parent  had  acted  on  the  germ-plasm, 
although  in  reality  soma  and  plasma  have  simply  both 
suffered  the  action  of  the  same  cause.  Now,  suppose 
that  the  soma  can  influence  the  germ-plasm,  as  those 
believe  who  hold  that  acquired  characters  are  trans- 
missible. Is  not  the  most  natural  hypothesis  to  suppose 
that  things  happen  in  this  second  case  as  in  the  first,  and 
that  the  direct  effect  of  the  influence  of  the  soma  is  a 
general  alteration  of  the  germ-plasm?  If  this  is  the  cas(j, 
it  is  by  exception,  and  in  some  sort  by  accident,  that  the 
modification  of  the  descendant  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 
parent.  It  is  like  the  hereditability  of  the  alcoholic  taint: 
it  passes  from  father  to  children,  but  it  may  take  a different 
form  in  each  child,  and  in  none  of  them  be  like  what  it 
was  in  the  father.  Let  the  letter  C represent  the  change 
in  the  plasm,  C being  either  positive  or  negative,  that  is  to 
say,  showing  either  the  gain  or  loss  of  certain  substances. 
The  effect  will  not  be  an  exact  reproduction  of  the  cause, 
nor  will  the  change  in  the  germ-plasm,  provoked  by  a cer- 
tain modification  of  a certain  part  of  the  soma,  determine 
a similar  modification  of  the  corresponding  part  of  the 
new  organism  in  process  of  formation,  unless  all  the  other 


I.J 


VARIATION  AND  HEREDITY 


83 


nascent  parts  of  this  organism  enjoy  a kind  of  immunity 
as  regards  C:  the  same  part  will  then  undergo  alteration 
in  the  new  organism,  because  it  happens  that  the  develop- 
ment of  this  part  is  alone  subject  to  the  new  influence. 
And,  even  then,  the  part  might  be  altered  in  an  entirely 
different  way  from  that  in  which  the  corresponding  part 
was  altered  in  the  generating  organism. 

We  should  propose,  then,  to  introduce  a distinction 
between  the  hereditability  of  deviation  and  that  of  char- 
acter. An  individual  which  acquires  a new  character 
thereby  deviates  from  the  form  it  previously  had,  which 
form  the  germs,  or  oftener  the  half-germs,  it  contains 
would  have  reproduced  in  their  development.  If  this 
modification  does  not  involve  the  production  of  sub- 
stances capable  of  changing  the  germ-plasm,  or  does  not 
so  affect  nutrition  as  to  deprive  the  germ-plasm  of  certain 
of  its  elements,  it  will  have  no  effect  on  the  offspring  of 
the  individual.  This  is  probably  the  case  as  a rule.  If, 
on  the  contrary,  it  has  some  effect,  this  is  likely  to  be  due 
to  a chemical  change  which  it  has  induced  in  the  germ- 
plasm.  This  chemical  change  might,  by  exception,  bring 
about  the  original  modification  again  in  the  organism  which 
the  germ  is  about  to  develop,  but  there  are  as  many  and 
more  chances  that  it  will  do  something  else.  In  this 
latter  case,  the  generated  organism  will  perhaps  deviate 
from  the  normal  type  as  much  as  the  generating  organism, 
but  it  will  do  so  differently.  It  will  have  inherited  deviation 
and  not  character.  In  general,  therefore,  the  habits 
formed  by  an  individual  have  probably  no  echo  in  its 
offspring;  and  when  they  have,  the  modification  in  the 
descendants  may  have  no  visible  likeness  to  the  original 
one.  Such,  at  least,  is  the  hypothesis  which  seems  to 
us  most  likely.  In  any  case,  in  default  of  proof  to  the  con- 
trary, and  so  long  as  the  decisive  experiments  called  for 


84 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


by  an  eminent  biologist  ‘ have  not  been  made,  we  must 
keep  to  the  actual  results  of  observation.  Now,  even  if 
we  take  the  most  favorable  view  of  the  theory  of  the  trans- 
missibility  of  acquired  characters,  and  assume  that  the 
ostensible  acquired  character  is  not,  in  most  cases,  the 
more  or  less  tardy  development  of  an  innate  character, 
facts  show  us  that  hereditary  transmission  is  the  excep- 
tion and  not  the  rule.  How,  then,  shall  we  expect  it 
to  develop  an  organ  such  as  the  eye?  When  we  think 
of  the  enormous  number  of  variations,  all  in  the  same 
direction,  that  w^e  must  suppose  to  be  accumulated  before 
the  passage  from  the  pigment-spot  of  the  Infusorian 
to  the  eye  of  the  mollusc  and  of  the  vertebrate  is  possible, 
we  do  not  see  how  heredity,  as  we  observe  it,  could  ever 
have  determined  this  piling-up  of  differences,  even  sup- 
posing that  individual  efforts  could  have  produced  each 
of  them  singly.  That  is  to  say  that  neo-Lamarckism  is 
no  more  able  than  any  other  form  of  evolutionism  to 
solve  the  problem. 

In  thus  submitting  the  various  present  forms  of  evo- 
lutionism to  a common  test,  in  showing  that  they  all 
strike  against  the  same  insurmountable  difficulty,  we 
have  in  no  wise  the  intention  of  rejecting  them  altogether. 
On  the  contrary,  each  of  them,  being  supported  by  a 
considerable  number  of  facts,  must  be  true  in  its  way. 
Each  of  them  must  correspond  to  a certain  aspect  of  the 
process  of  evolution.  Perhaps  even  it  is  necessary  that 
a theory  should  restrict  itself  exclusively  to  a particular 
point  of  view,  in  order  to  remain  scientific,  i.e.  to  give  a 
precise  direction  to  researches  into  detail.  But  the  reality 
of  which  each  of  these  theories  takes  a partial  view  must 
transcend  them  all.  And  this  reality  is  the  special  object 
of  philosophy,  which  is  not  constrained  to  scientific  pre- 
1 Giard,  Controverses  transformistes,  Paris,  1904,  p.  147. 


I.l 


RESULT  OF  THE  DISCUSSION 


85 


cision  because  it  contemplates  no  practical  application. 
Let  us  therefore  indicate  in  a word  or  two  the  positive 
contribution  that  each  of  the  three  present  forms  of  evo- 
lutionism seems  to  us  to  make  toward  the  solution  of  the 
problem,  what  each  of  them  leaves  out,  and  on  what  point 
this  threefold  effort  should,  in  our  opinion,  converge  in 
order  to  obtain  a more  comprehensive,  although  thereby 
of  necessity  a less  definite,  idea  of  the  evolutionary  process. 

The  neo-Darwinians  are  probably  right,  we  believe, 
when  they  teach  that  the  essential  causes  of  variation 
are  the  differences  inherent  in  the  germ  borne  by  the 
individual,  and  not  the  experiences  or  behavior  of  the 
individual  in  the  course  of  his  career.  Where  we  fail  to 
follow  these  biologists,  is  in  regarding  the  differences 
inherent  in  the  germ  as  purely  accidental  and  individual. 
We  cannot  help  believing  that  these  differences  are  the 
development  of  an  impulsion  which  passes  from  germ  to 
germ  across  the  individuals,  that  they  are  therefore  not 
pure  accidents,  and  that  they  might  well  appear  at  the 
same  time,  in  the  same  form,  in  all  the  representatives  of 
the  same  species,  or  at  least  in  a certain  number  of  them. 
Already,  in  fact,  the  theory  of  mutations  is  modifying  Dar- 
winism profoundly  on  this  point.  It  asserts  that  at  a 
given  moment,  after  a long  period,  the  entire  species  is 
beset  ^vith  a tendency  to  change.  The  tendency  to  change, 
therefore,  is  not  accidental.  True,  the  change  itself  would 
be  accidental,  since  the  mutation  works,  according  to 
De  Vries,  in  different  directions  in  the  different  representa- 
tives of  the  species.  But,  first  we  must  see  if  the  theory 
is  confirmed  by  many  other  vegetable  species  (De  Vries 
has  verified  it  only  by  the  (Enothera  Lamarckiana)  and 

1 Some  analogous  facts,  however,  have  been  noted,  all  in  the  vegetable 
world.  See  Blaringhem,  “La  Notion  d’esp^ce  et  la  th^orie  de  la  mu- 
tation” {Annee  psychologique,  vol.  xii.,  1906,  pp.  95  ff.),  and  De  Vries, 
Species  and  Varieties,  p.  655. 


86 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


then  there  is  the  possibility,  as  we  shall  explain  further 
on,  that  the  part  played  by  chance  is  much  greater  in  the 
variation  of  plants  than  in  that  of  animals,  because,  in 
the  vegetable  world,  function  does  not  depend  so  strictly 
on  form.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  neo-Darwinians  are 
inclined  to  admit  that  the  periods  of  mutation  are  deter- 
minate. The  direction  of  the  mutation  may  therefore 
be  so  as  well,  at  least  in  animals,  and  to  the  extent  we  shall 
have  to  indicate. 

We  thus  arrive  at  a hypothesis  like  Eimer’s,  according 
to  which  the  variations  of  different  characters  continue 
from  generation  to  generation  in  definite  directions.  This 
hypothesis  seems  plausible  to  us,  within  the  limits  in  which 
Eimer  himself  retains  it.  Of  course,  the  evolution  of  the 
organic  world  cannot  be  predetermined  as  a whole.  We 
claim,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  spontaneity  of  life  is  mani- 
fested by  a continual  creation  of  new  forms  succeeding 
others.  But  this  indetermination  cannot  be  complete;  it 
must  leave  a certain  part  to  determination.  An  organ  like 
the  eye,  for  example,  must  have  been  formed  by  just  a 
continual  changing  in  a definite  direction.  Indeed,  w^e 
do  not  see  how  otherwise  to  explain  the  likeness  of  structure 
of  the  eye  in  species  that  have  not  the  same  history.  Where 
we  differ  from  Eimer  is  in  his  claim  that  combinations 
of  physical  and  chemical  causes  are  enough  to  secure  the 
result.  We  have  tried  to  prove,  on  the  contrary,  by  the 
example  of  the  eye,  that  if  there  is  “orthogenesis”  here, 
a psychological  cause  intervenes. 

Certain  neo-Lamarckians  do  indeed  resort  to  a cause 
of  a psychological  nature.  There,  to  our  thinking,  is 
one  of  the  most  solid  positions  of  neo-Lamarckism.  But 
if  this  cause  is  nothing  but  the  conscious  effort  of  the  in- 
dividual, it  cannot  operate  in  more  than  a restricted  num- 
ber of  cases — at  most  in  the  animal  world,  and  not  at  all 


I.l 


RESULT  OF  THE  DISCUSSION 


87 


in  the  vegetable  kingdom.  Even  in  animals,  it  will  act 
only  on  points  which  are  under  the  direct  or  indirect  con- 
trol of  the  will.  And  even  where  it  does  act,  it  is  not  clear 
how  it  could  compass  a change  so  profound  as  an  increase 
of  complexity:  at  most  this  would  be  conceivable  if  the 
acquired  characters  were  regularly  transmitted  so  as  to 
be  added  together;  but  this  transmission  seems  to  be 
the  exception  rather  than  the  rule.  A hereditary  change 
in  a definite  direction,  which  continues  to  accumulate 
and  add  to  itself  so  as  to  build  up  a more  and  more  complex 
machine,  must  certainly  be  related  to  some  sort  of  effort, 
but  to  an  effort  of  far  greater  depth  than  the  individual 
effort,  far  more  independent  of  circumstances,  an  effort 
common  to  most  representatives  of  the  same  species, 
inherent  in  the  germs  they  bear  rather  than  in  their  sub- 
stance alone,  an  effort  thereby  assured  of  being  passed  on 
to  their  descendants. 

So  we  come  back,  by  a somewhat  roundabout  way, 
to  the  idea  we  started  from,  that  of  an  original  impetus 
of  life,  passing  from  one  generation  of  germs  to  the  fol- 
lowing generation  of  germs  through  the  developed  organ- 
isms which  bridge  the  interval  between  the  generations. 
This  impetus,  sustained  right  along  the  lines  of  evolution 
among  which  it  gets  divided,  is  the  fundamental  cause 
of  variations,  at  least  of  those  that  are  regularly  passed 
on,  that  accumulate  and  create  new  species.  In  general, 
when  species  have  begun  to  diverge  from  a common  stock, 
they  accentuate  their  divergence  as  they  progress  in  their 
evolution.  Yet,  in  certain  definite  points,  they  may  evolve 
identically;  in^fact,  they  must  do  so  if  the  hypothesis  of  a 
common  impetus  be  accepted.  This  is  just  what  we  shall 
have  to  show  now  in  a more  precise  way,  by  the  same 
example  we  have  chosen,  the  formation  of  the  eye  in 


88 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


molluscs  and  vertebrates.  The  idea  of  an  “original 
impetus,  ’’  moreover,  will  thus  be  made  clearer. 

Two  points  are  equally  striking  in  an  organ  like  the 
eye:  the  complexity  of  its  structure  and  the  simplicity 
of  its  function.  The  eye  is  composed  of  distinct  parts, 
such  as  the  sclerotic,  the  cornea,  the  retina,  the  crystalline 
lens,  etc.  In  each  of  these  parts  the  detail  is  infinite.  The 
retina  alone  comprises  three  layers  of  nervous  elements — 
multipolar  cells,  bipolar  cells,  visual  cells — each  of  which 
has  its  individuality  and  is  undoubtedly  a very  compli- 
cated organism:  so  complicated,  indeed,  is  the  retinal 
membrane  in  its  intimate  structure,  that  no  simple  de- 
scription can  give  an  adequate  idea  of  it.  The  mechanism 
of  the  eye  is,  in  short,  composed  of  an  infinity  of  mechan- 
isms, all  of  extreme  complexity.  Yet  vision  is  one  simple 
fact.  As  soon  as  the  eye  opens,  the  visual  act  is  effected. 
Just  because  the  act  is  simple,  the  slightest  negligence 
on  the  part  of  nature  in  the  building  of  the  infinitely  com- 
plex machine  would  have  made  vision  impossible.  This 
contrast  between  the  complexity  of  the  organ  and  the 
unity  of  the  function  is  what  gives  us  pause. 

A mechanistic  theory  is  one  which  means  to  show  us 
the  gradual  building-up  of  the  machine  under  the  influence 
of  external  circumstances  intervening  either  directly  by 
action  on  the  tissues  or  indirectly  by  the  selection  of  better- 
adapted  ones.  But,  whatever  form  this  theory  may  take, 
supposing  it  avails  at  all  to  explain  the  detail  of  the  parts, 
it  throws  no  light  on  their  correlation. 

Then  comes  the  doctrine  of  finality,  w’hich  says  that 
the  parts  have  been  brought  together  on  a preconceived 
plan  with  a view  to  a certain  end.  In  this  it  likens  the 
labor  of  nature  to  that  of  the  workman,  who  also  pro- 
ceeds by  the  assemblage  of  parts  with  a view  to  the  real- 
ization of  an  idea  or  the  imitation  of  a model.  Mechanism, 


I.l 


THE  VITAL  IMPETUS 


89 


here,  reproaches  finalism  with  its  anthropomorphic  charac- 
ter, and  rightly.  But  it  fails  to  see  that  itself  proceeds 
according  to  this  method — somewhat  mutilated!  True, 
it  has  got  rid  of  the  end  pursued  or  the  ideal  model.  But 
it  also  holds  that  nature  has  worked  like  a human  being 
by  bringing  parts  together,  while  a mere  glance  at  the 
development  of  an  embryo  shows  that  life  goes  to  work 
in  a very  different  way.  Life  does  not  'proceed  hy  the  as- 
sociation and  addition  of  elements,  hut  hy  dissociation  and 
division. 

We  must  get  beyond  both  points  of  view,  both  mechanism 
and  finalism  being,  at  bottom,  only  standpoints  to  which 
the  human  mind  has  been  led  by  considering  the  work  of 
man.  But  in  what  direction  can  we  go  beyond  them? 
We  have  said  that  in  analyzing  the  structure  of  an  organ, 
we  can  go  on  decomposing  for  ever,  although  the  function 
of  the  whole  is  a simple  thing.  This  contrast  between 
the  infinite  complexity  of  the  organ  and  the  extreme 
simplicity  of  the  function  is  what  should  open  our  eyes. 

In  general,  when  the  same  object  appears  in  one  aspect 
as  simple  and  in  another  as  infinitely  complex,  the  two  as- 
pects have  by  no  means  the  same  importance,  or  rather  the 
same  degree  of  reality.  In  such  cases,  the  simplicity  be- 
longs to  the  object  itself,  and  the  infinite  complexity  to  the 
views  we  take  in  turning  around  it,  to  the  symbols  by  which 
our  senses  or  intellect  represent  it  to  us,  or,  more  generally, 
to  elements  of  a different  order,  with  which  we  try  to  imitate 
it  artificially,  but  with  which  it  remains  incommensurable, 
being  of  a different  nature.  An  artist  of  genius  has  painted 
a figure  on  his  canvas.  We  can  imitate  his  picture  with 
many-colored  squares  of  mosaic.  And  we  shall  reproduce 
the  curves  and  shades  of  the  model  so  much  the  better 
as  our  squares  are  smaller,  more  numerous  and  more  varied 
in  tone.  But  an  infinity  of  elements  infinitely  small, 


90 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


presenting  an  infinity  of  shades,  would  be  necessary  to 
obtain  the  exact  equivalent  of  the  figure  that  the  artist 
has  conceived  as  a simple  thing,  which  he  has  wished  to 
transport  as  a whole  to  the  canvas,  and  which  is  the  more 
complete  the  more  it  strikes  us  as  the  projection  of  an 
indivisible  intuition.  Now,  suppose  our  eyes  so  made 
that  they  cannot  help  seeing  in  the  work  of  the  master 
a mosaic  effect.  Or  suppose  our  intellect  so  made  that  it 
cannot  explain  the  appearance  of  the  figure  on  the  canvas 
except  as  a work  of  mosaic.  We  should  then  be  able  to 
speak''simply  of  a collection  of  little  squares,  and  we  should 
be  under  the  mechanistic  hypothesis.  We  might  add 
that,  beside  the  materiality  of  the  collection,  there  must 
be  a plan  on  which  the  artist  worked ; and  then  we  should 
be  expressing  ourselves  as  finalists.  But  in  neither  case 
should  we  have  got  at  the  real  process,  for  there  are  no 
squares  brought  together.  It  is  the  picture,  i.e.  the  simple 
act,  projected  on  the  canvas,  which,  by  the  mere  fact  of 
entering  into  our  perception,  is  decomposed  before  our 
eyes  into  thousands  and  thousands  of  little  squares  which 
present,  as  recomposed,  a wonderful  arrangement.  So 
the  eye,  with  its  marvelous  complexity  of  stmeture,  may  be 
only  the  simple  act  of  vision,  divided  for  us  into  a mosaic 
of  cells,  whose  order  seems  marvelous  to  us  because  we 
have  conceived  the  whole  as  an  assemblage. 

If  I raise  my  hand  from  A to  B,  this  movement  appears 
to  me  under  two  aspects  at  once.  Felt  from  within,  it  is  a 
simple,  indivisible  act.  Perceived  from  without,  it  is  the 
course  of  a certain  curve,  AB.  In  this  curve  I can  dis- 
tinguish as  many  positions  as  I please,  and  the  line  it- 
self might  be  defined  as  a certain  mutual  coordination  of 
these  positions.  But  the  positions,  infinite  in  number, 
and  the  order  in  which  they  are  connected,  have  sprung 
automatically  from  the  indivisible  act  by  which  my  hand 


I.J 


THE  VITAL  IMPETUS 


91 


has  gone  from  A to  B.  Mechanism,  here,  would  consist 
in  seeing  only  the  positions.  Finalism  would  take  their 
order  into  account.  But  both  mechanism  and  finalism 
would  leave  on  one  side  the  movement,  which  is  reality 
itself.  In  one  sense,  the  movement  is  more  than  the 
positions  and  than  their  order;  for  it  is  sufficient  to  make 
it  in  its  indivisible  simplicity  to  secure  that  the  infinity 
of  the  successive  positions  as  also  their  order  be  given  at 
once — with  something  else  which  is  neither  order  nor 
position  but  which  is  essential,  the  mobility.  But,  in 
another  sense,  the  movement  is  less  than  the  series  of 
positions  and  their  connecting  order;  for,  to  arrange 
points  in  a certain  order,  it  is  necessary  first  to  conceive 
the  order  and  then  to  realize  it  with  points,  there  must 
be  the  work  of  assemblage  and  there  must  be  intelligence, 
whereas  the  simple  movement  of  the  hand  contains  noth- 
ing of  either.  It  is  not  intelligent,  in  the  human  sense 
of  the  word,  and  it  is  not  an  assemblage,  for  it  is  not  made 
up  of  elements.  Just  so  with  the  relation  of  the  eye  to 
vision.  There  is  in  vision  more  than  the  component  cells 
of  the  eye  and  their  mutual  coordination:  in  this  sense, 
neither  mechanism  nor  finalism  go  far  enough.  But,  in 
another  sense,  mechanism  and  finalism  both  go  too  far, 
for  they  attribute  to  Nature  the  most  formidable  of  the 
labors  of  Hercules  in  holding  that  she  has  exalted  to  the 
simple  act  of  vision  an  infinity  of  infinitely  complex  ele- 
ments, whereas  Nature  has  had  no  more  trouble  in  making 
an  eye  than  I have  in  lifting  my  hand.  Nature’s  simple 
act  has  divided  itself  automatically  into  an  infinity  of 
elements  which  are  then  found  to  be  coordinated  to  one 
idea,  just  as  the  movement  of  my  hand  has  dropped  an 
infinity  of  points  which  are  then  found  to  satisfy  one 
equation. 

We  find  it  very  hard  to  see  things  in  that  light,  because 


92 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


we  cannot  help  conceiving  organization  as  manufacturing. 
But  it  is  one  thing  to  manufacture,  and  quite  another  to 
organize.  Manufacturing  is  peculiar  to  man.  It  consists 
in  assembling  parts  of  matter  which  we  have  cut  out  in 
such  manner  that  we  can  fit  them  together  and  obtain 
from  them  a common  action.  The  parts  are  arranged,  so 
to  speak,  around  the  action  as  an  ideal  centre.  To  manu- 
facture, therefore,  is  to  work  from  the  periphery  to  the 
centre,  or,  as  the  philosophers  say,  from  the  many  to  the 
one.  Organization,  on  the  contrary,  works  from  the  centre 
to  th^  periphery.  It  begins  in  a point  that  is  almost  a 
mathematical  point,  and  spreads  around  this  point  by 
concentric  waves  which  go  on  enlarging.  The  work  of 
manufacturing  is  the  more  effective,  the  greater  the  quant- 
ity of  matter  dealt  with.  It  proceeds  by  concentration 
and  compression.  The  organizing  act,  on  the  contrary, 
has  something  explosive  about  it:  it  needs  at  the  begin- 
ning the  smallest  possible  place,  a minimum  of  matter, 
as  if  the  organizing  forces  only  entered  space  reluctantly. 
The  spermatozoon,  which  sets  in  motion  the  evolutionary 
process  of  the  embryonic  fife,  is  one  of  the  smallest  cells 
of  the  organism;  and  it  is  only  a small  part  of  the  sperma- 
tozoon which  really  takes  part  in  the  operation. 

But  these  are  only  superficial  differences.  Digging 
beneath  them,  we  think,  a deeper  difference  would  be  found. 

A manufactured  thing  delineates  exactly  the  form  of 
the  work  of  manufacturing  it.  I mean  that  the  manu- 
facturer finds  in  his  product  exactly  what  he  has  put 
into  it.  If  he  is  going  to  make  a machine,  he  cuts  out 
its  pieces  one  by  one  and  then  puts  them  together:  the 
machine,  when  made,  will  show  both  the  pieces  and  their 
assemblage.  The  whole  of  the  result  represents  the  whole 
of  the  work;  and  to  each  part  of  the  work  corresponds 
a part  of  the  result. 


I.] 


THE  VITAL  IMPETUS 


93 


Now  I recognize  that  positive  science  can  and  should 
proceed  as  if  organization  was  like  making  a machine. 
Only  so  will  it  have  any  hold  on  organized  bodies.  For 
its  object  is  not  to  show  us  the  essence  of  things,  but  to 
furnish  us  with  the  best  means  of  acting  on  them.  Physics 
and  chemistry  are  well  advanced  sciences,  and  living  matter 
lends  itself  to  our  action  only  so  far  as  we  can  treat  it  by  the 
processes  of  our  physics  and  chemistry.  Organization 
can  therefore  only  be  studied  scientifically  if  the  organized 
body  has  first  been  likened  to  a machine.  The  cells  will 
be  the  pieces  of  the  machine,  the  organism  their  assemblage, 
and  the  elementary  labors  which  have  organized  the  parts 
will  be  regarded  as  the  real  elements  of  the  labor  which  has 
organized  the  whole.  This  is  the  standpoint  of  science. 
Quite  different,  in  our  opinion,  is  that  of  philosophy. 

For  us,  the  whole  of  an  organized  machine  may,  strictly 
speaking,  represent  the  whole  of  the  organizing  work 
(this  is,  however,  only  approximately  true),  yet  the  parts 
of  the  machine  do  not  correspond  to  parts  of  the  work, 
because  the  materiality  of  this  machine  does  not  represent 
a sum  of  means  employed,  hut  a sum  of  obstacles  avoided:  it 
is  a negation  rather  than  a positive  reality.  So,  as  we  have 
shown  in  a former  study,  vision  is  a power  which  should 
attain  by  right  an  infinity  of  things  inaccessible  to  our  eyes. 
But  such  a vision  would  not  be  continued  into  action;  it 
might  suit  a phantom,  but  not  a living  being.  The  vision 
of  a living  being  is  an  effective  vision,  limited  to  objects  on 
which  the  being  can  act:  it  is  a vision  that  is  canalized, 
and  the  visual  apparatus  simply  symbolizes  the  work  of 
canalizing.  Therefore  the  creation  of  the  visual  apparatus 
is  no  more  explained  by  the  assembling  of  its  anatomic 
elements  than  the  digging  of  a canal  could  be  explained 
by  the  heaping-up  of  the  earth  which  might  have  formed  its 
banks.  A mechanistic  theory  would  maintain  that  the 


94 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


earth  had  been  brought  cart-load  by  cart-load;  finalism 
would  add  that  it  had  not  been  dumped  down  at  random, 
that  the  carters  had  followed  a plan.  But  both  theories 
would  be  mistaken,  for  the  canal  has  been  made  in  another 
way. 

With  greater  precision,  we  may  compare  the  process 
by  which  nature  constructs  an  eye  to  the  simple  act  by 
which  we  raise  the  hand.  But  we  supposed  at  first  that 
the  hand  met  with  no  resistance.  Let  us  now  imagine 
that,  instead  of  moving  in  air,  the  hand  has  to  pass  through 
iron  filings  which  are  compressed  and  offer  resistance 
to  it  in  proportion  as  it  goes  forward.  At  a certain  moment 
the  hand  will  have  exhausted  its  effort,  and,  at  this  very 
moment,  the  filings  will  be  massed  and  coordinated  in  a 
certain  definite  form,  to  wit,  that  of  the  hand  that  is  stopped 
and  of  a part  of  the  arm.  Now,  suppose  that  the  hand  and 
arm  are  invisible.  Lookers-on  will  seek  the  reason  of  the 
arrangement  in  the  filings  themselves  and  in  forces  within 
the  mass.  Some  will  account  for  the  position  of  each  filing 
by  the  action  exerted  upon  it  by  the  neighboring  filings: 
these  are  the  mechanists.  Others  will  prefer  to  think  that 
a plan  of  the  whole  has  presided  over  the  detail  of  these 
elementary  actions,  they  are  the  finalists.  But  the  truth 
is  that  there  has  been  merely  one  indivisible  act,  that  of 
the  hand  passing  through  the  filings:  the  inexhaustible 
detail  of  the  movement  of  the  grains,  as  well  as  the  order 
of  their  final  arrangement,  expresses  negatively,  in  a way, 
this  undivided  movement,  being  the  unitary  form  of  a 
resistance,  and  not  a synthesis  of  positive  elementary 
actions.  For  this  reason,  if  the  arrangement  of  the  grains 
is  termed  an  “effect’’  and  the  movement  of  the  hand  a 
“cause,”  it  may  indeed  be  said  that  the  whole  of  the  effect 
is  explained  by  the  whole  of  the  cause,  but  to  parts  of  the 
cause  parts  of  the  effect  will  in  no  wise  correspond.  In 


I.l 


THE  VITAL  IMPETUS 


95 


other  wordS;  neither  mechanism  nor  finalism  will  here  be  in 
place,  and  we  must  resort  to  an  explanation  of  a different 
kind.  Now,  in  the  hypothesis  we  propose,  the  relation 
of  vision  to  the  visual  apparatus  would  be  very  nearly 
that  of  the  hand  to  the  iron  filings  that  follow,  canalize 
and  limit  its  motion. 

The  greater  the  effort  of  the  hand,  the  farther  it  will 
go  into  the  filings.  But  at  whatever  point  it  stops,  in- 
stantaneously and  automatically  the  filings  coordinate 
and  find  their  equilibrium.  So  with  vision  and  its  organ. 
According  as  the  undivided  act  constituting  vision  ad- 
vances more  or  less,  the  materiality  of  the  organ  is  made 
of  a more  or  less  considerable  number  of  mutually  co- 
ordinated elements,  but  the  order  is  necessarily  complete 
and  perfect.  It  could  not  be  partial,  because,  once  agaia 
the  real  process  which  gives  rise  to  it  has  no  parts.  That 
is  what  neither  mechanism  nor  finalism  takes  into  account, 
and  it  is  what  we  also  fail  to  consider  when  we  wonder 
at  the  marvelous  structure  of  an  instrument  such  as  the 
eye.  At  the  bottom  of  our  wondering  is  always  this  idea, 
that  it  would  have  been  possible  for  a 'part  onl'y  of  this 
coordination  to  have  been  realized,  that  the  complete 
realization  is  a kind  of  special  favor.  This  favor  the 
finalists  consider  as  dispensed  to  them  all  at  once,  by  the 
final  cause;  the  mechanists  claim  to  obtain  it  little  by 
little,  by  the  effect  of  natural  selection;  but  both  see 
something  positive  in  this  codrdination,  and  consequently 
something  fractionable  in  its  cause, — something  which 
admits  of  every  possible  degree  of  achievement.  In 
reality,  the  cause,  though  more  or  less  intense,  cannot 
produce  its  effect  except  in  one  piece,  and  completely 
finished.  According  as  it  goes  further  and  further  in 
the  direction  of  vision,  it  gives  the  simple  pigmentary 
masses  of  a low’er  organism,  or  the  rudimentary  eye  of 


96 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


a Serpula,  or  the  slightly  differentiated  eye  of  the  Alciope, 
or  the  marvelously  perfected  eye  of  the  bird ; but  all  these 
organs,  unequal  as  is  their  complexity,  necessarily  present 
an  equal  cobrdination.  For  this  reason,  no  matter  how 
distant  two  animal  species  may  be  from  each  other,  if  the 
progress  toward  vision  has  gone  equally  far  in  both,  there 
is  the  same  visual  organ  in  each  case,  for  the  form  of  the 
organ  only  expresses  the  degree  in  which  the  exercise  of 
the  function  has  been  obtained. 

But,  in  speaking  of  a progress  toward  vision,  are  we 
not  coming  back  to  the  old  notion  of  finality?'  It  would 
be  so,  undoubtedly,  if  this  progress  required  the  conscious 
or  unconscious  idea  of  an  end  to  be  attained.  But  it  is 
really  effected  in  virtue  of  the  original  impetus  of  life; 
it  is  implied  in  this  movement  itself,  and  that  is  just  why 
it  is  found  in  independent  lines  of  evolution.  If  now  we 
are  asked  why  and  how  it  is  implied  therein,  we  reply 
that  life  is,  more  than  an)dLing  else,  a tendency  to  act  on 
inert  matter.  The  direction  of  this  action  is  not  prede- 
termined; hence  the  unforeseeable  variety  of  forms  which 
life,  in  evolving,  sows  along  its  path.  But  this  action 
always  presents,  to  some  extent,  the  character  of  con- 
tingency; it  implies  at  least  a rudiment  of  choice.  Now 
a choice  involves  the  anticipatory  idea  of  several  possible 
actions.  Possibilities  of  action  must  therefore  be  marked 
out  for  the  living  being  before  the  action  itself.  Visual 
perception  is  nothing  else:*  the  visible  outlines  of  bodies 
are  the  design  of  our  eventual  action  on  them.  Vision 
will  be  found,  therefore,  in  different  degrees  in  the  most 
diverse  animals,  and  it  will  appear  in  the  same  complexity 
of  structure  wherever  it  has  reached  the  same  degree  of 
intensity. 

We  have  dwelt  on  these  resemblances  of  structure 

* See,  on  this  subject,  Matilre  et  memoire,  chap.  i. 


1.1 


THE  VITAL  IMPETUS 


97 


in  general,  and  on  the  example  of  the  eye  in  particular, 
because  we  had  to  define  our  attitude  toward  mechanism 
on  the  one  hand  and  finalism  on  the  other.  It  remains 
for  us  to  describe  it  more  precisely  in  itself.  This  we 
shall  now  do  by  showing  the  divergent  results  of  evolution 
not  as  presenting  analogies,  but  as  themselves  mutually 
complementary. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  DIVERGENT  DIRECTIONS  OF  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  LIFE. 

TORPOR,  INTELLIGENCE,  INSTINCT 

The  evolution  movement  would  be  a simple  one,  and 
we  should  soon  have  been  able  to  determine  its  direc- 
tion, if  life  had  described  a single  course,  like  that  of  a 
solid  ball  shot  from  a cannon.  But  it  proceeds  rather 
like  a shell,  which  suddenly  bursts  into  fragments,  which 
fragments,  being  themselves  shells,  burst  in  their  turn 
into  fragments  destined  to  burst  again,  and  so  on  for  a 
time  incommensurably  long.  We  perceive  only  what  is 
nearest  to  us,  namely,  the  scattered  movements  of  the 
pulverized  explosions.  From  them  we  have  to  go  back, 
stage  by  stage,  to  the  original  movement. 

When  a shell  bursts,  the  particular  way  it  breaks  is 
explained  both  by  the  explosive  force  of  the  powder  it 
contains  and  by  the  resistance  of  the  metal.  So  of  the 
way  life  breaks  into  individuals  and  species.  It  depends, 
we  think,  on  two  series  of  causes:  the  resistance  life  meets 
from  inert  matter,  and  the  explosive  force — due  to  an 
unstable  balance  of  tendencies — which  life  bears  within 
itself. 

The  resistance  of  inert  matter  was  the  obstacle  that 
had  first  to  be  overcome.  Life  seems  to  have  succeeded 
in  this  by  dint  of  humility,  by  making  itself  very  small 
and  very  insinuating,  bending  to  physical  and  chemical 
forces,  consenting  even  to  go  a part  of  the  way  with  them, 
like  the  switch  that  adopts  for  a while  the  direction  of 

98 


II.] 


DIVERGENT  TENDENCIES 


99 


the  rail  it  is  endeavoring  to  leave.  Of  phenomena  in 
the  simplest  forms  of  life,  it  is  hard  to  say  whether  they  are 
still  physical  and  chemical  or  whether  they  are  already 
vital.  Life  had  to  enter  thus  into  the  habits  of  inert  matter, 
in  order  to  draw  it  little  by  little,  magnetized,  as  it  were, 
to  another  track.  The  animate  forms  that  first  appeared 
were  therefore  of  extreme  simplicity.  They  were  probably 
tiny  masses  of  scarcely  differentiated  protoplasm,  out- 
wardly resembling  the  amoeba  observable  to-day,  but 
possessed  of  the  tremendous  internal  push  that  was  to 
raise  them  even  to  the  highest  forms  of  life.  That  in 
virtue  of  this  push  the  first  organisms  sought  to  grow  as 
much  as  possible,  seems  likely.  But  organized  matter 
has  a limit  of  expansion  that  is  ver}^  quickly  reached; 
beyond  a certain  point  it  divides  instead  of  growing. 
Ages  of  effort  and  prodigies  of  subtlety  were  probably 
necessary  for  life  to  get  past  this  new  obstacle.  It  suc- 
ceeded in  inducing  an  increasing  number  of  elements, 
ready  to  divide,  to  remain  united.  By  the  division  of 
labor  it  knotted  between  them  an  indissoluble  bond.  The 
complex  and  quasi-discontinuous  organism  is  thus  made 
to  function  as  would  a continuous  living  mass  which 
had  simply  grown  bigger. 

But  the  real  and  profound  causes  of  division  were  those 
which  life  bore  within  its  bosom.  For  life  is  tendency, 
and  the  essence  of  a tendency  is  to  develop  in  the  form  of  a 
sheaf,  creating,  by  its  very  growth,  divergent  directions 
among  which  its  impetus  is  divided.  This  we  observe  in 
ourselves,  in  the  evolution  of  that  special  tendency  which  we 
call  our  character.  Each  of  us,  glancing  back  over  his 
history,  will  find  that  his  child-personality,  though  in- 
divisible, united  in  itself  divers  persons,  which  could  re- 
main blended  just  because  they  were  in  their  nascent  state: 
this  indecision,  so  charged  with  promise,  is  one  of  the 


100 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


greatest  charms  of  childhood.  But  these  interwoven 
personalities  become  incompatible  in  course  of  growth, 
and,  as  each  of  us  can  live  but  one  life,  a choice  must 
perforce  be  made.  We  choose  in  reality  without  ceasing; 
without  ceasing,  also,  we  abandon  many  things.  The 
route  we  pursue  in  time  is  strewn  with  the  remains  of  all 
that  we  began  to  be,  of  all  that  we  might  have  become. 
But  nature,  which  has  at  command  an  incalculable  number 
of  lives,  is  in  no  wise  bound  to  make  such  sacrifices.  She 
preserves  the  different  tendencies  that  have  bifurcated 
with  their  growth.  She  creates  with  them  diverging 
series  of  species  that  will  evolve  separately. 

These  series  may,  moreover,  be  of  unequal  import- 
ance. The  author  who  begins  a novel  puts  into  his  hero 
many  things  which  he  is  obliged  to  discard  as  he  goes  on. 
Perhaps  he  will  take  them  up  later  in  other  books,  and  make 
new  characters  with  them,  who  will  seem  like  extracts  from, 
or  rather  like  complements  of,  the  first;  but  they  will  al- 
most always  appear  somewhat  poor  and  limited  in  compari- 
son with  the  original  character.  So  with  regard  to  the 
evolution  of  life.  The  bifurcations  on  the  way  have  been 
numerous,  but  there  have  been  many  blind  alleys  beside 
the  two  or  three  highways;  and  of  these  highways  them- 
selves, only  one,  that  which  leads  through  the  vertebrates 
up  to  man,  has  been  wide  enough  to  allow  free  passage 
to  the  full  breath  of  life.  We  get  this  impression  when 
we  compare  the  societies  of  bees  and  ants,  for  instance, 
with  human  societies.  The  former  are  admirably  ordered 
and  united,  but  stereotyped;  the  latter  are  open  to  every 
sort  of  progress,  but  divided,  and  incessantly  at  strife 
with  themselves.  The  ideal  would  be  a society  always  in 
progress  and  always  in  equilibrium,  but  this  ideal  is  perhaps 
unrealizable:  the  two  characteristics  that  would  fain  com- 
plete each  other,  which  do  complete  each  other  in  their 


Ill 


ADAPTATION  AND  PROGRESS 


101 


embryonic  state,  can  no  longer  abide  together  when  they 
grow  stronger.  If  one  could  speak,  otherwise  than  meta- 
phorically, of  an  impulse  toward  social  life,  it  might  be  said 
that  the  brunt  of  the  impulse  was  borne  along  the  line  of 
evolution  ending  at  man,  and  that  the  rest  of  it  was  col- 
lected on  the  road  leading  to  the  hymenoptera:  the  so- 
cieties of  ants  and  bees  would  thus  present  the  aspect 
complementary  to  ours.  But  this  would  be  only  a manner 
of  expression.  There  has  been  no  particular  impulse 
towards  social  life;  there  is  simply  the  general  movement 
of  life,  which  on  divergent  lines  is  creating  forms  ever  new. 
If  societies  should  appear  on  two  of  these  lines,  they  ought 
to  show  divergence  of  paths  at  the  same  time  as  community 
of  impetus.  They  will  thus  develop  two  classes  of  char- 
acteristics which  we  shall  find  vaguely  complementary 
of  each  other. 

So  our  study  of  the  evolution  movement  will  have  to 
unravel  a certain  number  of  divergent  directions,  and  to 
appreciate  the  importance  of  what  has  happened  along 
each  of  them — in  a word,  to  determine  the  nature  of  the 
dissociated  tendencies  and  estimate  their  relative  pro- 
portion. Combining  these  tendencies,  then,  we  shall  get 
an  approximation,  or  rather  an  imitation,  of  the  indivisible 
motor  principle  whence  their  impetus  proceeds.  Evo- 
lution will  thus  prove  to  be  something  entirely  different 
from  a series  of  adaptations  to  circumstances,  as  mechan- 
ism claims;  entirely  different  also  from  the  reahzation  of  a 
plan  of  the  whole,  as  maintained  by  the  doctrine  of  finality. 

That  adaptation  to  environment  is  the  necessary  con- 
dition of  evolution  we  do  not  question  for  a moment. 
It  is  quite  evident  that  a species  would  disappear,  should 
it  fail  to  bend  to  the  conditions  of  existence  which  are  im- 
posed on  it.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  recognize  that  outer 


102 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


circumstances  are  forces  evolution  must  reckon  with, 
another  to  claim  that  they  are  the  directing  causes  of 
evolution.  This  latter  theory  is  that  of  mechanism.  It 
excludes  absolutely  the  hypothesis  of  an  original  impetus, 
I mean  an  internal  push  that  has  carried  life,  by  more  and 
more  complex  forms,  to  higher  and  higher  destinies.  Yet 
this  impetus  is  evident,  and  a mere  glance  at  fossil  species 
shows  us  that  life  need  not  have  evolved  at  all,  or  might 
have  evolved  only  in  very  restricted  limits,  if  it  had  chosen 
the  alternative,  much  more  convenient  to  itself,  of  be- 
coming anchylosed  in  its  primitive  forms.  Certain  Fora- 
minifera  have  not  varied  since  the  Silurian  epoch.  Un- 
moved witnesses  of  the  innumerable  revolutions  that  have 
upheaved  our  planet,  the  Lingulae  are  to-day  what  they 
were  at  the  remotest  times  of  the  paleozoic  era. 

The  truth  is  that  adaptation  explains  the  sinuosities  of 
the  movement  of  evolution,  but  not  its  general  directions, 
still  less  the  movement  itself.*  The  road  that  leads  to 
the  town  is  obliged  to  follow  the  ups  and  downs  of  the  hills; 
it  adapts  itself  to  the  accidents  of  the  ground;  but  the 
accidents  of  the  ground  are  not  the  cause  of  the  road,  nor 
have  they  given  it  its  direction.  At  every  moment  they 
furnish  it  with  what  is  indispensable,  namely,  the  soil  on 
which  it  lies;  but  if  we  consider  the  whole  of  the  road,  in- 
stead of  each  of  its  parts,  the  accidents  of  the  ground  appear 
only  as  impediments  or  causes  of  delay,  for  the  road  aims 
simply  at  the  town  and  would  fain  be  a straight  line.  Just 
so  as  regards  the  evolution  of  life  and  the  circumstances 
through  which  it  passes — with  this  difference,  that  evo- 
lution does  not  mark  out  a solitary  route,  that  it  takes 
directions  without  aiming  at  ends,  and  that  it  remains 
inventive  even  in  its  adaptations. 

* This  view  of  adaptation  has  been  noted  by  M.  F.  Marin  in  a re- 
markable article  on  the  origin  of  species,  “L’Origine  des  especes" 
{Revue  sdentifique,  Nov.  1901,  p.  580). 


II.] 


ADAPTATION  AND  PROGRESS 


103 


But,  if  the  evolution  of  life  is  something  other  than 
a series  of  adaptations  to  accidental  circumstances,  so 
also  it  is  not  the  realization  of  a plan.  A plan  is  given 
in  advance.  It  is  represented,  or  at  least  representable, 
before  its  realization.  The  complete  execution  of  it 
may  be  put  off  to  a distant  future,  or  even  indefinitely; 
but  the  idea  is  none  the  less  formulable  at  the  present 
time,  in  terms  actually  given.  If,  on  the  contrary,  evo- 
lution is  a creation  unceasingly  renewed,  it  creates,  as 
it  goes  on,  not  only  the  forms  of  life,  but  the  ideas  that 
will  enable  the  intellect  to  understand  it,  the  terms  which 
will  serve  to  express  it.  That  is  to  say  that  its  future 
overflows  its  present,  and  can  not  be  sketched  out  therein 
in  an  idea. 

There  is  the  first  error  of  finalism.  It  involves  another, 
yet  more  serious. 

If  life  realizes  a plan,  it  ought  to  manifest  a greater 
harmony  the  further  it  advances,  just  as  the  house  shows 
better  and  better  the  idea  of  the  architect  as  stone  is  set 
upon  stone.  If,  on  the  contrary,  the  unity  of  life  is  to  be 
found  solely  in  the  impetus  that  pushes  it  along  the  road 
of  time,  the  harmony  is  not  in  front,  but  behind.  The  unity 
is  derived  from  a vis  a ter  go:  it  is  given  at  the  start  as  an 
impulsion,  not  placed  at  the  end  as  an  attraction.  In 
communicating  itself,  the  impetus  splits  up  more  and  more. 
Life,  in  proportion  to  its  progress,  is  scattered  in  mani- 
festations which  undoubtedly  owe  to  their  common  origin 
the  fact  that  they  are  complementary  to  each  other  in 
certain  aspects,  but  which  are  none  the  less  mutually 
incompatible  and  antagonistic.  So  the  discord  between 
species  will  go  on  increasing.  Indeed,  we  have  as  yet 
only  indicated  the  essential  cause  of  it.  We  have  sup- 
posed, for  the  sake  of  simplicity,  that  each  species  received 
the  impulsion  in  order  to  pass  it  on  to  others,  and  that. 


104 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  every  direction  in  which  life  evolves,  the  propagation 
is  in  a straight  line.  But,  as  a matter  of  fact,  there  are 
species  which  are  arrested;  there  are  some  that  retrogress. 
Evolution  is  not  only  a movement  forward;  in  many  cases 
we  observe  a marking-time,  and  still  more  often  a deviation 
or  turning  back.  It  must  be  so,  as  we  shall  show  further 
on,  and  the  same  causes  that  divide  the  evolution  move- 
ment often  cause  life  to  be  diverted  from  itself,  hypnotized 
by  the  form  it  has  just  brought  forth.  Thence  results  an 
increaspig  disorder.  No  doubt  there  is  progress,  if  pro- 
gress mean  a continual  advance  in  the  general  direction 
determined  by  a first  impulsion;  but  this  progress  is  ac- 
complished only  on  the  t\vo  or  three  great  lines  of  evolution 
on  which  forms  ever  more  and  more  complex,  ever  more 
and  more  high,  appear;  between  these  lines  run  a crowd 
of  minor  paths  in  which,  on  the  contrary,  deviations, 
arrests,  and  set-backs,  are  multiplied.  The  philosopher, 
who  begins  by  laying  down  as  a principle  that  each  detail 
is  connected  with  some  general  plan  of  the  whole,  goes  from 
one  disappointment  to  another  as  soon  as  he  comes  to 
examine  the  facts;  and,  as  he  had  put  everything  in  the 
same  rank,  he  finds  that,  as  the  result  of  not  allowing  for 
accident,  he  must  regard  everything  as  accidental.  For 
accident,  then,  an  allowance  must  first  be  made,  and  a 
very  liberal  allowance.  We  must  recognize  that  all  is 
not  coherent  in  nature.  By  so  doing,  we  shall  be  led  to 
ascertain  the  centres  around  which  the  incoherence  crystal- 
lizes. This  crystallization  itself  will  clarify  the  rest; 
the  main  directions  wdll  appear,  in  which  life  is  moving 
whilst  developing  the  original  impulse.  True,  we  shall  not 
v/itness  the  detailed  accomplishment  of  a plan.  Nature 
is  more  and  better  than  a plan  in  course  of  realization. 
A plan  is  a term  assigned  to  a labor:  it  closes  the  future 
whose  form  it  indicates.  Before  the  evolution  of  life,  on 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


105 


n.i 

the  contrary,  the  portals  of  the  future  remain  wide  open. 
It  is  a creation  that  goes  on  for  ever  in  virtue  of  an  initial 
movement.  This  movement  constitutes  the  unity  of 
the  organized  world — a prolific  unity,  of  an  infinite  rich- 
ness, superior  to  any  that  the  intellect  could  dream  of, 
for  the  intellect  is  only  one  of  its  aspects  or  products. 

But  it  is  easier  to  define  the  method  than  to  apply  it. 
The  complete  interpretation  of  the  evolution  movement 
in  the  past,  as  we  conceive  it,  would  be  possible  only  if 
the  history  of  the  development  of  the  organized  world 
were  entirely  knowm.  Such  is  far  from  being  the  case. 
The  genealogies  proposed  for  the  different  species  are 
generally  questionable.  They  vary  with  their  authors, 
with  the  theoretic  views  inspiring  them,  and  raise  dis- 
cussions to  which  the  present  state  of  science  does  not 
admit  of  a final  settlement.  But  a comparison  of  the 
different  solutions  shows  that  the  controversy  bears  less 
on  the  main  lines  of  the  movement  than  on  matters  of  detail ; 
and  so,  by  following  the  main  lines  as  closely  as  possible, 
we  shall  be  sure  of  not  going  astray.  Moreover,  they  alone 
are  important  to  us;  for  we  do  not  aim,  like  the  naturalist, 
at  finding  the  order  of  succession  of  different  species,  but 
only  at  defining  the  principal  directions  of  their  evolution. 
And  not  all  of  these  directions  have  the  same  interest  for 
us:  what  concerns  us  particularly  is  the  path  that  leads 
to  man.  We  shall  therefore  not  lose  sight  of  the  fact, 
in  following  one  direction  and  another,  that  our  main 
business  is  to  determine  the  relation  of  man  to  the  animal 
kingdom,  and  the  place  of  the  animal  kingdom  itself  in  the 
organized  world  as  a whole. 

To  begin  with  the  second  point,  let  us  say  that  no  definite 
characteristic  distinguishes  the  plant  from  the  animal. 
Attempts  to  define  the  two  kingdoms  strictly  have  always 


106 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


come  to  naught.  There  is  not  a single  property  of  vege- 
table life  that  is  not  found,  in  some  degree,  in  certain  ani- 
mals; not  a single  characteristic  feature  of  the  animal 
that  has  not  been  seen  in  certain  species  or  at  certain 
moments  in  the  vegetable  world.  Naturally,  therefore, 
biologists  enamored  of  clean-cut  concepts  have  regarded 
the  distinction  between  the  two  kingdoms  as  artificial. 
They  would  be  right,  if  definition  in  this  case  must  be  made, 
as  in  the  mathematical  and  physical  sciences,  according 
to  certain  statical  attributes  which  belong  to  the  object 
defined  and  are  not  found  in  any  other.  Very  different,  in 
our  opinion,  is  the  kind  of  definition  which  befits  the 
sciences  of  life.  There  is  no  manifestation  of  life  which 
does  not  contain,  in  a rudimentary  state — either  latent 
or  potential, — the  essential  characters  of  most  other  mani- 
festations. The  difference  is  in  the  proportions.  But  this 
very  difference  of  proportion  will  suffice  to  define  the  group, 
if  we  can  establish  that  it  is  not  accidental,  and  that  the 
group  as  it  evolves,  tends  more  and  more  to  emphasize  these 
particular  characters.  In  a word,  the  group  must  not  he 
defined  by  the  possession  of  certain  characters,  hut  hy  its 
tendency  to  emphasize  them.  From  this  point  of  view,  taking 
tendencies  rather  than  states  into  account,  we  find  that 
vegetables  and  animals  may  be  precisely  defined  and 
distinguished,  and  that  they  correspond  to  two  divergent 
developments  of  life. 

This  divergence  is  shown,  first,  in  the  method  of  ali- 
mentation. We  know  that  the  vegetable  derives  directly 
from  the  air  and  water  and  soil  the  elements  necessary 
to  maintain  life,  especially  carbon  and  nitrogen,  which  it 
takes  in  mineral  form.  The  animal,  on  the  contrarj^ 
cannot  assimilate  these  elements  unless  they  have  already 
been  fixed  for  it  in  organic  substances  by  plants,  or  by 
animals  which  directly  or  indirectly  owe  them  to  plants; 


II.l 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


107 


so  that  ultimately  the  vegetable  nourishes  the  animal. 
True,  this  law  allows  of  many  exceptions  among  vegetables. 
We  do  not  hesitate  to  class  amongst  vegetables  the  Drosera, 
the  Dionaea,  the  Pinguicula;  which  are  insectivorous 
plants.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fungi,  which  occupy  so 
considerable  a place  in  the  vegetable  world,  feed  like  ani- 
mals : whether  they  are  ferments,  saprophytes  or  parasites, 
it  is  to  already  formed  organic  substances  that  they  owe 
their  nourishment.  It  is  therefore  impossible  to  draw  from 
this  difference  any  static  definition  such  as  would  auto- 
matically settle  in  any  particular  case  the  question  whether 
we  are  dealing  with  a plant  or  an  animal.  But  the  difference 
may  provide  the  beginning  of  a dynamic  definition  of  the 
two  kingdoms,  in  that  it  marks  the  two  divergent  di- 
rections in  which  vegetables  and  animals  have  taken  their 
course.  It  is  a remarkable  fact  that  the  fungi,  which 
nature  has  spread  all  over  the  earth  in  such  extraordinary 
profusion,  have  not  been  able  to  evolve.  Organically 
they  do  not  rise  above  tissues  which,  in  the  higher  vegetables, 
are  formed  in  the  embryonic  sac  of  the  ovary,  and  precede 
the  germinative  development  of  the  new  individual.* 
They  might  be  called  the  abortive  children  of  the  vege- 
table world.  Their  different  species  are  like  so  many  blind 
alleys,  as  if,  by  renouncing  the  mode  of  alimentation  custom- 
ary amongst  vegetables,  they  had  been  brought  to  a stand- 
still on  the  highway  of  vegetable  evolution.  As  to  the 
Drosera,  the  Dionaea,  and  insectivorous  plants  in  general, 
they  are  fed  by  their  roots,  like  other  plants;  they  too  fix, 
by  their  green  parts,  the  carbon  of  the  carbonic  acid  in  the 
atmosphere.  Their  faculty  of  capturing,  absorbing  and 
digesting  insects  must  have  arisen  late,  in  quite  exceptional 
cases  where  the  soil  was  too  poor  to  furnish  sufficient  nour- 
ishment. In  a general  way,  then,  if  we  attach  less  im- 
* De  Saporta  and  Marion,  VEvolution  des  cryptogames,  1881,  p.  37. 


108 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


portance  to  the  presence  of  special  characters  than  to  their 
tendency  to  develop,  and  if  we  regard  as  essential  that 
tendency  along  which  evolution  has  been  able  to  continue 
indefinitely,  we  may  say  that  vegetables  are  distinguished 
from  animals  by  their  power  of  creating  organic  matter 
out  of  mineral  elements  which  they  draw  directly  from  the 
air  and  earth  and  water.  But  now  we  come  to  another 
difference,  deeper  than  this,  though  not  unconnected  with  it. 

The  animal,  being  unable  to  fix  directly  the  carbon 
and  nitrogen  which  are  everywhere  to  be  found,  has  to 
seek  for  its  nourishment  vegetables  which  have  already 
fixed  these  elements,  or  animals  which  have  taken  them 
from  the  vegetable  kingdom.  So  the  animal  must  be 
able  to  move.  From  the  amoeba,  w’hich  thrusts  out 
its  pseudopodia  at  random  to  seize  the  organic  matter 
scattered  in  a drop  of  w’ater,  up  to  the  higher  animals 
which  have  sense-organs  with  which  to  recognize  their 
prey,  locomotor  organs  to  go  and  seize  it,  and  a nervous 
system  to  coordinate  their  movements  with  their  sen- 
sations, animal  life  is  characterized,  in  its  general  direction, 
by  mobility  in  space.  In  its  most  rudimentary  form,  the 
animal  is  a tiny  mass  of  protoplasm  enveloped  at  most 
in  a thin  albuminous  pellicle  which  allows  full  freedom  for 
change  of  shape  and  movement.  The  vegetable  cell, 
on  the  contrary^,  is  surrounded  by  a membrane  of  cellu- 
lose, which  condemns  it  to  immobility.  And,  from  the 
bottom  to  the  top  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  there  are  the 
same  habits  growing  more  and  more  sedentary,  the  plant 
having  no  need  to  move,  and  finding  around  it,  in  the  air 
and  water  and  soil  in  which  it  is  placed,  the  mineral  ele- 
ments it  can  appropriate  directly.  It  is  true  that  phe- 
nomena of  movemciit  are  seen  in  plants.  Darvdn  has 
written  a well-known  work  on  the  movements  of  climbing 
plants.  He  studied  also  the  contrivances  of  certain  in- 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


109 


II. 1 

sectivorous  plants,  such  as  the  Drosera  and  the  Dionaea, 
to  seize  their  prey.  The  leaf-movements  of  the  acacia, 
the  sensitive  plant,  etc.,  are  well  known.  Moreover, 
the  circulation  of  the  vegetable  protoplasm  within  its 
sheath  bears  witness  to  its  relationship  to  the  protoplasm 
of  animals,  whilst  in  a large  number  of  animal  species 
(generally  parasites)  phenomena  of  fixation,  analogous 
to  those  of  vegetables,  can  be  observed.*  Here,  again, 
it  would  be  a mistake  to  claim  that  fixity  and  mobility 
are  the  two  characters  which  enable  us  to  decide,  by  simple 
inspection  alone,  whether  we  have  before  us  a plant  or  an 
animal.  But  fixity,  in  the  animal,  generally  seems  like 
a torpor  into  which  the  species  has  fallen,  a refusal  to 
evolve  further  in  a certain  direction;  it  is  closely  akin  to 
parasitism  and  is  accompanied  by  features  that  recall 
those  of  vegetable  life.  On  the  other  hand,  the  move- 
ments of  vegetables  have  neither  the  frequency  nor  the 
variety  of  those  of  animals.  Generally,  they  involve  only 
part  of  the  organism  and  scarcely  ever  extend  to  the  whole. 
In  the  exceptional  cases  in  which  a vague  spontaneity 
appears  in  vegetables,  it  is  as  if  we  beheld  the  accidental 
awakening  of  an  activity  normally  asleep.  In  short, 
although  both  mobility  and  fixity  exist  in  the  vegetable 
as  in  the  animal  world,  the  balance  is  clearly  in  favor  of 
fixity  in  the  one  case  and  of  mobility  in  the  other.  These 
two  opposite  tendencies  are  so  plainly  directive  of  the  two 
evolutions  that  the  two  kingdoms  might  almost  be  defined 
by  them.  But  fixity  and  mobility,  again,  are  only  super- 
ficial signs  of  tendencies  that  are  still  deeper. 

Between  mobility  and  consciousness  there  is  an  obvious 
relationship.  No  doubt,  the  consciousness  of  the  higher 
organisms  seems  bound  up  with  certain  cerebral  arrange- 

* On  fixation  and  parasitism  in  general,  see  the  work  of  Houssay, 
La  Forme  et  la  vie,  Paris,  1900,  pp.  721-807. 


no 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


merits.  The  more  the  nervous  system  develops,  the  more 
numerous  and  more  precise  become  the  movements  among 
which  it  can  choose;  the  clearer,  also,  is  the  consciousness 
that  accompanies  them.  But  neither  this  mobility  nor 
this  choice  nor  consequently  this  consciousness  involves 
as  a necessary  condition  the  presence  of  a nervous  system ; 
the  latter  has  only  canalized  in  definite  directions,  and 
brought  up  to  a higher  degree  of  intensity,  a rudimentary 
and  vague  activity,  diffused  throughout  the  mass  of  the 
organized  substance.  The  lower  we  descend  in  the  ani- 
mal series,  the  more  the  nervous  centres  are  simplified, 
and  the  more,  too,  they  separate  from  each  other,  till 
finally  the  nervous  elements  disappear,  merged  in  the  mass 
of  a less  differentiated  organism.  But  it  is  the  same  with 
all  the  other  apparatus,  with  all  the  other  anatomical 
elements ; and  it  would  be  as  absurd  to  refuse  consciousness 
to  an  animal  because  it  has  no  brain  as  to  declare  it  in- 
capable of  nourishing  itself  because  it  has  no  stomach. 
The  truth  is  that  the  nervous  system  arises,  like  the  other 
systems,  from  a division  of  labor.  It  does  not  create  the 
function,  it  only  brings  it  to  a higher  degree  of  intensity 
and  precision  by  giving  it  the  double  form  of  reflex  and 
voluntary  activity.  To  accomplish  a true  reflex  move- 
ment, a whole  mechanism  is  necessary,  set  up  in  the  spinal 
cord  or  the  medulla.  To  choose  voluntarily  between 
several  definite  courses  of  action,  cerebral  centres  are 
necessary,  that  is,  crossways  from  which  paths  start, 
leading  to  motor  mechanisms  of  diverse  form  but  equal 
precision.  But  where  nervous  elements  are  not  yet  canal- 
ized, still  less  concentrated  into  a system,  there  is  some- 
thing from  which,  by  a kind  of  splitting,  both  the  reflex 
and  the  voluntary  will  arise,  something  which  has  neither 
the  mechanical  precision  of  the  former  nor  the  intelli- 
gent hesitations  of  the  latter,  but  which,  partaking  of 


II.] 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


111 


both  it  may  be  infinitesimally,  is  a reaction  simply  unde- 
cided, and  therefore  vaguely  conscious.  This  amounts 
to  saying  that  the  humblest  organism  is  conscious  in  pro- 
portion to  its  power  to  move  freely.  Is  consciousness 
here,  in  relation  to  movement,  the  effect  or  the  cause? 
In  one  sense  it  is  the  cause,  since  it  has  to  direct  loco- 
motion. But  in  another  sense  it  is  the  effect,  for  it  is 
the  motor  activity  that  maintains  it,  and,  once  this  activity 
disappears,  consciousness  dies  away  or  rather  falls  asleep. 
In  crustaceans  such  as  the  rhizocephala,  which  must 
formerly  have  shown  a more  differentiated  structure, 
fixity  and  parasitism  accompany  the  degeneration  and 
almost  complete  disappearance  of  the  nervous  system. 
Since,  in  such  a case,  the  progress  of  organization  must 
have  localized  all  the  conscious  activity  in  nervous  centres, 
we  may  conjecture  that  consciousness  is  even  weaker  in 
animals  of  this  kind  than  in  organisms  much  less  differen- 
tiated, which  have  never  had  nervous  centres  but  have 
remained  mobile. 

How  then  could  the  plant,  which  is  fixed  in  the  earth 
and  finds  its  food  on  the  spot,  have  developed  in  the  di- 
rection of  conscious  activity?  The  membrane  of  cellulose, 
in  which  the  protoplasm  wraps  itself  up,  not  only  prevents 
the  simplest  vegetable  organism  from  moving,  but  screens 
it  also,  in  some  measure,  from  those  outer  stimuli  which 
act  on  the  sensibility  of  the  animal  as  irritants  and  prevent 
it  from  going  to  sleep.*  The  plant  is  therefore  unconscious. 
Here  again,  however,  we  must  beware  of  radical  distinctions. 
“Unconscious”  and  “conscious”  are  not  two  labels  which 
can  be  mechanically  fastened,  the  one  on  every  vegetable 
cell,  the  other  on  all  animals.  While  consciousness  sleeps 
in  the  animal  which  has  degenerated  into  a motionless 
parasite,  it  probably  awakens  in  the  vegetable  that  has 
* Cope,  op.  cU.  p.  76. 


112 


CREATRT^  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


regained  liberty  of  movement,  and  awakens  in  just  the 
degree  to  which  the  vegetable  has  reconquered  this  liberty. 
Nevertheless,  consciousness  and  unconsciousness  mark  the 
directions  in  which  the  two  kingdoms  have  developed,  in 
this  sense,  that  to  find  the  best  specimens  of  consciousness 
in  the  animal  we  must  ascend  to  the  highest  representatives 
of  the  series,  whereas,  to  find  probable  cases  of  vegetable 
consciousness,  we  must  descend  as  low  as  possible  in  the 
scale  of  plants — down  to  the  zoospores  of  the  algae,  for 
instance,  and,  more  generally,  to  those  unicellular  organ- 
isms which  may  be  said  to  hesitate  between  the  vegetable 
form  and  animality.  From  this  standpoint,  and  in  this 
measure,  we  should  define  the  animal  by  sensibility  and 
awakened  consciousness,  the  vegetable  by  consciousness 
asleep  and  by  insensibility. 

To  sum  up,  the  vegetable  manufactures  organic  sub- 
stances directly  with  mineral  substances;  as  a rule,  this 
aptitude  enables  it  to  dispense  with  movement  and  so 
with  feeling.  Animals,  which  are  obliged  to  go  in  search 
of  their  food,  have  evolved  in  the  direction  of  locomotor 
activity,  and  consequently  of  a consciousness  more  and 
more  distinct,  more  and  more  ample. 

Now,  it  seems  to  us  most  probable  that  the  animal 
cell  and  the  vegetable  cell  are  derived  from  a common 
stock,  and  that  the  first  living  organisms  oscillated  be- 
tween the  vegetable  and  animal  form,  participating  in 
both  at  once.  Indeed,  we  have  just  seen  that  the  char- 
acteristic tendencies  of  the  evolution  of  the  two  kingdoms, 
although  divergent,  coexist  even  now,  both  in  the  plant 
and  in  the  animal.  The  proportion  alone  differs.  Or- 
dinarily, one  of  the  two  tendencies  covers  or  crushes  down 
the  other,  but  in  exceptional  circumstances  the  suppressed 
one  starts  up  and  regains  the  place  it  had  lost.  The 


II.l 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIIVIAL 


113 


mobility  and  consciousness  of  the  vegetable  cell  are  not 
so  sound  asleep  that  they  cannot  rouse  themselves  when 
circumstances  permit  or  demand  it;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  evolution  of  the  animal  kingdom  has  always  been  re- 
tarded, or  stopped,  or  dragged  back,  by  the  tendency  it 
has  kept  toward  the  vegetative  life.  However  full,  how- 
ever overflowing  the  activity  of  an  animal  species  may 
appear,  torpor  and  unconsciousness  are  always  lying  in 
wait  for  it.  It  keeps  up  its  role  only  by  effort,  at  the 
price  of  fatigue.  Along  the  route  on  which  the  animal 
has  evolved,  there  have  been  numberless  shortcomings 
and  cases  of  decay,  generally  associated  with  parasitic 
habits;  they  are  so  many  shuntings  on  to  the  Vegetative 
life.  Thus,  everything  bears  out  the  belief  that  vegetable 
and  animal  are  descended  from  a common  ancestor  which 
united  the  tendencies  of  both  in  a rudimentary  state. 

But  the  two  tendencies  mutually  implied  in  this  rudi- 
mentary form  became  dissociated  as  they  grew\  Hence 
the  world  of  plants  with  its  fixity  and  insensibility,  hence 
the  animals  with  their  mobility  and  consciousness.  There 
is  no  need,  in  order  to  explain  this  dividing  into  two,  to 
bring  in  any  mysterious  force.  It  is  enough  to  point  out 
that  the  living  being  leans  naturally  toward  what  is  most 
convenient  to  it,  and  that  vegetables  and  animals  have 
chosen  two  different  kinds  of  convenience  in  the  way  of 
procuring  the  carbon  and  nitrogen  they  need.  Vegetables 
continually  and  mechanically  draw  these  elements  from  an 
environment  that  continually  provides  it.  Animals,  by 
action  that  is  discontinuous,  concentrated  in  certain 
moments,  and  conscious,  go  to  find  these  bodies  in  organ- 
isms that  have  already  fixed  them.  They  are  two  different 
ways  of  being  industrious,  or  perhaps  we  may  prefer  to 
say,  of  being  idle.  For  this  very  reason  we  doubt  whether 
nervous  elements,  however  rudimentary,  will  ever  be  found 


114 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  the  plant.  What  corresponds  in  it  to  the  directing  will 
of  the  animal  iS;  we  believe,  the  direction  in  which  it  bends 
the  energy  of  the  solar  radiation  when  it  uses  it  to  break 
the  connection  of  the  carbon  with  the  oxygen  in  carbonic 
acid.  What  corresponds  in  it  to  the  sensibility  of  the  ani- 
mal is  the  impressionability,  quite  of  its  kind,  of  its  chloro- 
phyl  light.  Now,  a nervous  system  being  pre-eminently 
a mechanism  w’hich  serves  as  intermediary  between  sen- 
sations and  volitions,  the  true  “nervous  system^’  of  the 
plant  ^eems  to  be  the  mechanism  or  rather  chemicism 
sui  generis  which  serves  as  intermediary  between  the  im- 
pressionability of  its  chlorophyl  to  light  and  the  produc- 
ing of  starch : which  amounts  to  saying  that  the  plant  can 
have  no  nervous  elements,  and  that  the  same  impetus  that 
has  led  the  animal  to  give  itself  nerves  and  nerve  centres  must 
have  ended j in  the  plant,  in  the  chlorophyllian  function.^ 

This  first  glance  over  the  organized  world  will  enable 
us  to  ascertain  more  precisely  wRat  unites  the  two  king- 
doms, and  also  what  separates  them. 

Suppose,  as  we  suggested  in  the  preceding  chapter, 
that  at  the  root  of  life  there  is  an  effort  to  engraft  on  to 
the  necessity  of  physical  forces  the  largest  possible  amount 
of  indetermination.  This  effort  cannot  result  in  the 
creation  of  energy,  or,  if  it  does,  the  quantity  created 
does  not  belong  to  the  order  of  magnitude  apprehended 

1 Just  as  the  plant,  in  certain  cases,  recovers  the  faculty  of  moving 
actively  which  slumbers  in  it,  so  the  animal,  in  exceptional  circum- 
stances, can  replace  itself  in  the  conditions  of  the  vegetative  life  and 
develop  in  itself  an  equivalent  of  the  chlorophy Ilian  function.  It 
appears,  indeed,  from  recent  experiments  of  Maria  von  Linden,  that 
the  chrysalides  and  the  caterpillars  of  certain  lepidoptera,  under  the 
influence  of  light,  fix  the  carbon  of  the  carbonic  acid  contained  in 
the  atmosphere  (M.  von  Linden,  ‘‘L ’Assimilation  de  I’acide  carbonique 
par  les  chrysalides  de  L^pidopteres,  ” C.  R.  de  la  Soc.  de  biologic,  1905, 
pp.  692  ff.). 


II.l 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


115 


by  our  senses  and  instruments  of  measurement,  our  ex- 
perience and  science.  All  that  the  effort  can  do,  then,  is 
to  make  the  best  of  a pre-existing  energy  which  it  finds 
at  its  disposal.  Now,  it  finds  only  one  way  of  succeed- 
ing in  this,  namely,  to  secure  such  an  accumulation  of 
potential  energy  from  matter,  that  it  can  get,  at  any 
moment,  the  amount  of  work  it  needs  for  its  action,  simply 
by  pulling  a trigger.  The  effort  itself  possesses  only 
that  power  of  releasing.  But  the  work  of  releasing, 
although  always  the  same  and  always  smaller  than  any 
given  quantity,  will  be  the  more  effective  the  heavier 
the  weight  it  makes  fall  and  the  greater  the  height — or, 
in  other  vrords,  the  greater  the  sum  of  potential  energy 
accumulated  and  disposable.  As  a matter  of  fact,  the 
principal  source  of  energy  usable  on  the  surface  of  our 
planet  is  the  sun.  So  the  problem  was  this:  to  obtain 
from  the  sun  that  it  should  partially  and  provisionally 
suspend,  here  and  there,  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  its 
continual  outpour  of  usable  energy,  and  store  a certain 
quantity  of  it,  in  the  form  of  unused  energy,  in  appropriate 
reservoirs,  whence  it  could  be  drawn  at  the  desired  moment, 
at  the  desired  spot,  in  the  desired  direction.  The  sub- 
stances forming  the  food  of  animals  are  just  such  reservoirs. 
Made  of  very  complex  molecules  holding  a considerable 
amount  of  chemical  energy  in  the  potential  state,  they  are 
like  explosives  which  only  need  a spark  to  set  free  the  energy 
stored  within  them.  Now,  it  is  probable  that  life  tended 
at  the  beginning  to  compass  at  one  and  the  same  time  both 
the  manufacture  of  the  explosive  and  the  explosion  by 
which  it  is  utilized.  In  this  case,  the  same  organism  that 
had  directly  stored  the  energy  of  the  solar  radiation 
would  have  expended  it  in  free  movements  in  space. 
And  for  that  reason  we  must  presume  that  the  first  living 
beings  sought  on  the  one  hand  to  accumulate,  without 


116 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


ceasing,  energy  borrowed  from  the  sun,  and  on  the  other 
hand  to  expend  it,  in  a discontinuous  and  explosive  way, 
in  movements  of  locomotion.  Even  to-day,  perhaps,  a 
chlorophyl-bearing  Infusorian  such  as  the  Euglena  may 
symbolize  this  primordial  tendency  of  life,  though  in  a 
mean  form,  incapable  of  evolving.  Is  the  divergent 
development  of  the  two  kingdoms  related  to  what  one  may 
call  the  oblivion  of  each  kingdom  as  regards  one  of  the 
two  halves  of  the  programme?  Or  rather,  which  is  more 
likely,  was  the  very  nature  of  the  matter,  that  life  found 
confronting  it  on  our  planet,  opposed  to  the  possibility 
of  the  two  tendencies  evolving  very  far  together  in  the  same 
organism?  What  is  certain  is  that  the  vegetable  has 
trended  principally  in  the  first  direction  and  the  animal 
in  the  second.  But  if,  from  the  very  first,  in  making  the 
explosive,  nature  had  for  object  the  explosion,  then  it  is 
the  evolution  of  the  animal,  rather  than  that  of  the  vege- 
table, that  indicates,  on  the  whole,  the  fundamental  di- 
rection of  life. 

The  “harmony^^  of  the  two  kingdoms,  the  comple- 
mentary characters  they  display,  might  then  be  due 
to  the  fact  that  they  develop  two  tendencies  which  at  first 
were  fused  in  one.  The  more  the  single  original  tendency 
grows,  the  harder  it  finds  it  to  keep  united  in  the  same 
living  being  those  two  elements  which  in  the  rudimentary 
state  implied  each  other.  Hence  a parting  in  two,  hence 
two  divergent  evolutions;  hence  also  two  series  of  char- 
acters opposed  in  certain  points,  complementary  in  others, 
but,  whether  opposed  or  complementary,  always  preserving 
an  appearance  of  kinship.  While  the  animal  evolved, 
not  without  accidents  along  the  way,  toward  a freer  and 
freer  expenditure  of  discontinuous  energy,  the  plant  per- 
fected rather  its  system  of  accumulation  without  moving. 
We  shall  not  dwell  on  this  second  point.  Suffice  it  to 


II.l 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


117 


say  that  the  plant  must  have  been  greatly  benefited,  in 
its  turn,  by  a new  division,  analogous  to  that  between 
plants  and  animals.  While  the  primitive  vegetable 
cell  had  to  fix  by  itself  both  its  carbon  and  its  nitrogen, 
it  became  able  almost  to  give  up  the  second  of  these  two 
functions  as  soon  as  microscopic  vegetables  came  forward 
which  leaned  in  this  direction  exclusively,  and  even  special- 
ized diversely  in  this  still  complicated  business.  The 
microbes  that  fix  the  nitrogen  of  the  air  and  those  which 
convert  the  ammoniacal  compounds  into  nitrous  ones, 
and  these  again  into  nitrates,  have,  by  the  same  splitting 
up  of  a tendency  primitively  one,  rendered  to  the  whole 
vegetable  world  the  same  kind  of  service  as  the  vegetables 
in  general  have  rendered  to  animals.  If  a special  kingdom 
were  to  be  made  for  these  microscopic  vegetables,  it  might 
be  said  that  in  the  microbes  of  the  soil,  the  vegetables 
and  the  animals,  we  have  before  us  the  analysis,  carried 
out  by  the  matter  that  life  found  at  its  disposal  on  our 
planet,  of  all  that  life  contained,  at  the  outset,  in  a state 
of  reciprocal  implication.  Is  this,  properly  speaking,  a 
“division  of  labor’’?  These  words  do  not  give  the  exact 
idea  of  evolution,  such  as  we  conceive  it.  Wherever  there 
is  division  of  labor,  there  is  association  and  also  convergence 
of  effort.  Now,  the  evolution  we  are  speaking  of  is  never 
achieved  by  means  of  association,  but  by  dissociation;  it 
never  tends  toward  convergence,  but  toward  divergence  of 
efforts.  The  harmony  between  terms  that  are  mutually 
complementary  in  certain  points  is  not,  in  our  opinion, 
produced,  in  course  of  progress,  by  a reciprocal  adapta- 
tion; on  the  contrary,  it  is  complete  only  at  the  start. 
It  arises  from  an  original  identity,  from  the  fact  that  the 
evolutionary  process,  splaying  out  like  a sheaf,  sunders, 
in  proportion  to  their  simultaneous  growth,  terms  which 
at  first  completed  each  other  so  well  that  they  coalesced. 


118 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


Now,  the  elements  into  which  a tendency  splits  up 
are  far  from  possessing  the  same  importance,  or,  above 
all,  the  same  power  to  evolve.  We  have  just  distinguished 
three  different  kingdoms,  if  one  may  so  express  it,  in  the 
organized  world.  While  the  first  comprises  only  micro- 
organisms which  have  remained  in  the  rudimentary  state, 
animals  and  vegetables  have  taken  their  flight  toward 
very  lofty  fortunes.  Such,  indeed,  is  generally  the  case 
when  a tendency  divides.  Among  the  divergent  develop- 
ments ip  which  it  gives  rise,  some  go  on  indefinitely,  others 
come  more  or  less  quickly  to  the  end  of  their  tether.  These 
latter  do  not  issue  directly  from  the  primitive  tendency, 
but  from  one  of  the  elements  into  which  it  has  divided; 
they  are  residual  developments  made  and  left  behind 
on  the  way  by  some  truly  elementary  tendency  which 
continues  to  evolve.  Now,  these  truly  elementary  ten- 
dencies, we  think,  bear  a mark  by  which  they  may  be 
recognized. 

This  mark  is  like  a trace,  still  visible  in  each,  of  what 
was  in  the  original  tendency  of  which  they  represent  the 
elementary  directions.  The  elements  of  a tendency  are 
not  like  objects  set  beside  each  other  in  space  and  mutually 
exclusive,  but  rather  like  psychic  states,  each  of  which, 
although  it  be  itself  to  begin  with,  yet  partakes  of  others, 
and  so  virtually  includes  in  itself  the  whole  personality 
to  which  it  belongs.  There  is  no  real  manifestation  of 
life,  we  said,  that  does  not  show  us,  in  a rudimentary 
or  latent  state,  the  characters  of  other  manifestations. 
Conversely,  when  we  meet,  on  one  line  of  evolution,  a 
recollection,  so  to  speak,  of  what  is  developed  along  other 
lines,  we  must  conclude  that  we  have  before  us  dissociated 
elements  of  one  and  the  same  original  tendency.  In  this 
sense,  vegetables  and  animals  represent  the  two  great 
divergent  developments  of  life.  Though  the  plant  is 


II.] 


THE  PLANT  AND  THE  ANIMAL 


119 


distinguished  from  the  animal  by  fixity  and  insensibility, 
movement  and  consciousness  sleep  in  it  as  recollections 
which  may  waken.  But,  beside  these  normally  sleeping 
recollections,  there  are  others  awake  and  active,  just  those, 
namely,  whose  activity  does  not  obstruct  the  development 
of  the  elementary  tendency  itself.  We  may  then  formulate 
this  law:  When  a tendency  splits  up  in  the  course  of  its 
development^  each  of  the  special  tendencies  which  thus  arise 
tries  to  preserve  and  develop  everything  in  the  primitive 
tendency  that  is  not  incompatible  with  the  work  for  which 
it  is  specialized.  This  explains  precisely  the  fact  we 
dwelt  on  in  the  preceding  chapter,  viz.,  the  formation 
of  identical  complex  mechanisms  on  independent  lines 
of  evolution.  Certain  deep-seated  analogies  between 
the  animal  and  the  vegetable  have  probably  no  other 
cause:  sexual  generation  is  perhaps  only  a luxury  for 
the  plant,  but  to  the  animal  it  was  a necessity,  and  the 
plant  must  have  been  driven  to  it  by  the  same  impetus 
which  impelled  the  animal  thereto,  a primitive,  original 
impetus,  anterior  to  the  separation  of  the  two  kingdoms. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  tendency  of  the  vegetable 
towards  a growing  complexity.  This  tendency  is  essential 
to  the  animal  kingdom,  ever  tormented  by  the  need  of 
more  and  more  extended  and  effective  action.  But  the 
vegetable,  condemned  to  fixity  and  insensibility,  exhibits 
the  same  tendency  only  because  it  received  at  the  outset 
the  same  impulsion.  Recent  experiments  show  that  it 
varies  at  random  when  the  period  of  ‘‘mutation”  arrives; 
whereas  the  animal  must  have  evolved,  we  believe,  in 
much  more  definite  directions.  But  we  will  not  dwell 
further  on  this  original  doubling  of  the  modes  of  life.  Let 
us  come  to  the  evolution  of  animals,  in  which  we  are  more 
particularly  interested. 


120 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


What  constitutes  animality,  we  said,  is  the  faculty 
of  utilizing  a releasing  mechanism  for  the  conversion 
of  as  much  stored-up  potential  energy  as  possible  into 
“explosive’’  actions.  In  the  beginning  the  explosion 
is  haphazard,  and  does  not  choose  its  direction.  Thus 
the  amoeba  thrusts  out  its  pseudopodic  prolongations 
in  all  directions  at  once.  But,  as  we  rise  in  the  animal 
scale,  the  form  of  the  body  itself  is  observed  to  indicate 
a certain  number  of  very  definite  directions  along  which 
the  energy  travels.  These  directions  are  marked  by  so 
many  chains  of  nervous  elements.  Now,  the  nervous 
element  has  gradually  emerged  from  the  barely  differentiat- 
ed mass  of  organized  tissue.  It  may,  therefore,  be  sur- 
mised that  in  the  nervous  element,  as  soon  as  it  appears, 
and  also  in  its  appendages,  the  faculty  of  suddenly  freeing 
the  gradually  stored-up  energy  is  concentrated.  No  doubt, 
every  living  cell  expends  energy  without  ceasing,  in  order 
to  maintain  its  equilibrium.  The  vegetable  cell,  torpid 
from  the  start,  is  entirely  absorbed  in  this  work  of  main- 
tenance alone,  as  if  it  took  for  end  what  must  at  first  have 
been  only  a means.  But,  in  the  animal,  all  points  to  action, 
that  is,  to  the  utilization  of  energy  for  movements  from 
place  to  place.  True,  every  animal  cell  expends  a good 
deal — often  the  whole — of  the  energy  at  its  disposal  in 
keeping  itself  alive;  but  the  organism  as  a whole  tries 
to  attract  as  much  energy  as  possible  to  those  points  where 
the  locomotive  movements  are  effected.  So  that  where  a 
nervous  system  exists,  with  its  complementary  sense- 
organs  and  motor  apparatus,  everything  should  happen 
as  if  the  rest  of  the  body  had,  as  its  essential  function,  to 
prepare  for  these  and  pass  on  to  them,  at  the  moment 
required,  that  force  which  they  are  to  liberate  by  a sort 
of  explosion. 

The  part  played  by  food  amongst  the  higher  animals 


ANIMAL  LIFE 


121 


n.i 

is,  indeed,  extremely  complex.  In  the  first  place  it  serves 
to  repair  tissues,  then  it  provides  the  animal  with  the 
heat  necessary  to  render  it  as  independent  as  possible 
of  changes  in  external  temperature.  Thus  it  preserves, 
supports,  and  maintains  the  organism  in  which  the  nervous 
system  is  set  and  on  which  the  nervous  elements  have  to 
live.  But  these  nervous  elements  would  have  no  reason 
for  existence  if  the  organism  did  not  pass  to  them,  and 
especially  to  the  muscles  they  control,  a certain  energy 
to  expend;  and  it  may  even  be  conjectured  that  there, 
in  the  main,  is  the  essential  and  ultimate  destination  of 
food.  This  does  not  mean  that  the  greater  part  of  the  food 
is  used  in  this  v/ork.  A state  may  have  to  make  enormous 
expenditure  to  secure  the  return  of  taxes,  and  the  sum 
which  it  will  have  to  dispose  of,  after  deducting  the  cost 
of  collection,  will  perhaps  be  very  small:  that  sum  is, 
none  the  less,  the  reason  for  the  tax  and  for  all  that  has 
been  spent  to  obtain  its  return.  So  it  is  with  the  energy 
which  the  animal  demands  of  its  food. 

Many  facts  seem  to  indicate  that  the  nervous  and  mus- 
cular elements  stand  in  this  relation  towards  the  rest  of 
the  organism.  Glance  first  at  the  distribution,  of  ali- 
mentary substances  among  the  different  elements  of  the 
living  body.  These  substances  fall  into  two  classes,  one 
the  quaternary  or  albuminoid,  the  other  the  ternary, 
including  the  carbohydrates  and  the  fats.  The  albumi- 
noids are  properly  plastic,  destined  to  repair  the  tissues — 
although,  owing  to  the  carbon  they  contain,  they  are 
capable  of  providing  energy  on  occasion.  But  the  function 
of  supplying  energy  has  devolved  more  particularly  on 
the  second  class  of  substances:  these,  being  deposited 
in  the  cell  rather  than  forming  part  of  its  substance, 
convey  to  it,  in  the  form  of  chemical  potential,  an  ex- 
pansive energy  that  may  be  directly  converted  into  either 


122 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


movement  or  heat.  In  short,  the  chief  function  of  the 
albuminoids  is  to  repair  the  machine,  while  the  function 
of  the  other  class  of  substances  is  to  supply  power.  It 
is  natural  that  the  albuminoids  should  have  no  specially 
allotted  destination,  since  every  part  of  the  machine  has 
to  be  maintained.  But  not  so  with  the  other  substances. 
The  carbohydrates  are  distributed  very  unequally,  and 
this  inequality  of  distribution  seems  to  us  in  the  highest 
degree  instructive. 

Conveyed  by  the  arterial  blood  in  the  form  of  glucose, 
these  substances  are  deposited,  in  the  form  of  glycogen, 
in  the  different  cells  forming  the  tissues.  We  know  that 
one  of  the  principal  functions  of  the  liver  is  to  maintain 
at  a constant  level  the  quantity  of  glucose  held  by  the 
blood,  by  means  of  the  reserves  of  glycogen  secreted  by  the 
hepatic  cells.  Now,  in  this  circulation  of  glucose  and 
accumulation  of  glycogen,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  effect 
is  as  if  the  whole  effort  of  the  organism  were  directed 
towards  providing  with  potential  energy  the  elements  of 
both  the  muscular  and  the  nervous  tissues.  The  organ- 
ism proceeds  differently  in  the  tw^o  cases,  but  it  arrives 
at  the  same  result.  In  the  first  case,  it  provides  the  muscle- 
cell with  a large  reserve  deposited  in  advance : the  quantity 
of  glycogen  contained  in  the  muscles  is,  indeed,  enormous 
in  comparison  with  what  is  found  in  the  other  tissues. 
In  the  nervous  tissue,  on  the  contrary,  the  reserve  is 
small  (the  nervous  elements,  whose  function  is  merely 
to  liberate  the  potential  energy  stored  in  the  muscle,  never 
have  to  furnish  much  work  at  one  time) ; but  the  remark- 
able thing  is  that  this  reserve  is  restored  by  the  blood  at 
the  very  moment  that  it  is  expended,  so  that  the  nerve 
is  instantly  recharged  with  potential  energy.  Muscular 
tissue  and  nervous  tissue  are,  therefore,  both  privileged, 
the  one  in  that  it  is  stocked  with  a large  reserv^e  of  energy, 


n.i 


ANIMAL  LIFE 


123 


the  other  in  that  it  is  always  served  at  the  instant  it  is  in 
need  and  to  the  exact  extent  of  its  requirements. 

More  particularly,  it  is  from  the  sensori-motor  system 
that  the  call  for  glycogen,  the  potential  energy,  comes, 
as  if  the  rest  of  the  organism  were  simply  there  in  order 
to  transmit  force  to  the  nervous  system  and  to  the  muscles 
which  the  nerves  control.  True,  when  we  think  of  the 
part  played  by  the  nervous  system  (even  the  sensori- 
motor system)  as  regulator  of  the  organic  life,  it  may  well 
be  asked  whether,  in  this  exchange  of  good  offices  between 
it  and  the  rest  of  the  body,  the  nervous  system  is  indeed 
a master  that  the  body  serves.  But  we  shall  already  in- 
cline to  this  hypothesis  when  we  consider,  even  in  the 
static  state  only,  the  distribution  of  potential  energy 
among  the  tissues;  and  we  shall  be  entirely  convinced  of  it 
when  we  reflect  upon  the  conditions  in  which  the  energy 
is  expended  and  restored.  For  suppose  the  sensori- 
motor system  is  a system  like  the  others,  of  the  same  rank 
as  the  others.  Borne  by  the  whole  of  the  organism,  it  will 
wait  until  an  excess  of  chemical  potential  is  supplied 
to  it  before  it  performs  any  work.  In  other  words,  it 
is  the  production  of  glycogen  which  will  regulate  the 
consumption  by  the  nerves  and  muscles.  On  the  con- 
trary, if  the  sensori-motor  system  is  the  actual  master, 
the  duration  and  extent  of  its  action  will  be  independent, 
to  a certain  extent  at  least,  of  the  reserve  of  glycogen  that 
it  holds,  and  even  of  that  contained  in  the  whole  of  the 
organism.  It  will  perform  work,  and  the  other  tissues 
will  have  to  arrange  as  they  can  to  supply  it  with  potential 
energy.  Now,  this  is  precisely  what  does  take  place,  as  is 
shown  in  particular  by  the  experiments  of  Morat  and  Du- 
fourt.*  While  the  glycogenic  function  of  the  liver  depends 
on  the  action  of  the  excitory  nerves  wffiich  control  it,  the 
^ Archives  de  physiologic,  1892. 


124 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


action  of  these  nerves  is  subordinated  to  the  action  of 
those  which  stimulate  the  locomotor  muscles — in  this 
sense,  that  the  muscles  begin  by  expending  without  cal- 
culation, thus  consuming  glycogen,  impoverishing  the 
blood  of  its  glucose,  and  finally  causing  the  liver,  which 
has  had  to  pour  into  the  impoverished  blood  some  of 
its  reserve  of  glycogen,  to  manufacture  a fresh  supply. 
From  the  sensori-motor  system,  then,  everything  starts; 
on  that  system  everything  converges;  and  we  may  say, 
without^  metaphor,  that  the  rest  of  the  organism  is  at  its 
service.  ^ 

Consider  again  what  happens  in  a prolonged  fast.  It 
is  a remarkable  fact  that  in  animals  that  have  died  of 
hunger  the  brain  is  found  to  be  almost  unimpaired,  while 
the  other  organs  have  lost  more  or  less  of  their  weight 
and  their  cells  have  undergone  profound  changes.*  Tt 
seems  as  though  the  rest  of  the  body  had  sustained  the 
nervous  system  to  the  last  extremity,  treating  itself 
simply  as  the  means  of  which  the  nervous  system  is  the 
end. 

To  sum  up:  if  we  agree,  in  short,  to  understand  by 
^‘the  sensori-motor  system”  the  cerebro-spinal  nervous 
system  together  with  the  sensorial  apparatus  in  which  it 
is  prolonged  and  the  locomotor  muscles  it  controls,  we 
may  say  that  a higher  organism  is  essentially  a sensori- 
motor system  installed  on  systems  of  digestion,  respiration, 
circulation,  secretion,  etc.,  whose  function  it  is  to  repair, 
cleanse  and  protect  it,  to  create  an  unvarying  internal 
environment  for  it,  and  above  all  to  pass  it  potential 

* De  Manaceine,  *^Quelques  observations  exp^rimentales  sur  Pin- 
fluence  de  Pinsomnie  absolue”  (Arch.  ital.  de  hiologie,  t.  xxi.,  1894,  pp. 
322  ff.).  Recently,  analogous  observations  have  been  made  on  a man 
who  died  of  inanition  after  a fast  of  thirty-five  days.  See,  on  this 
subject,  in  the  Annee  hiologique  of  1898,  p.  338,  the  r4sum4  of  an  article 
(in  Russian)  by  Tarakevitch  and  Stchasny. 


II.l 


ANIMAL  LIFE 


125 


energy  to  convert  into  locomotive  movement. ^ It  is 
true  that  the  more  the  nervous  function  is  perfected,  the 
more  must  the  functions  required  to  maintain  it  develop,  and 
the  more  exacting,  consequently,  they  become  for  them- 
selves. As  the  nervous  activity  has  emerged  from  the 
protoplasmic  mass  in  which  it  was  almost  drowned,  it 
has  had  to  summon  around  itself  activities  of  all  kinds  for 
its  support.  These  could  only  be  developed  on  other 
activities,  which  again  implied  others,  and  so  on  indefinitely. 
Thus  it  is  that  the  complexity  of  functioning  of  the  higher 
organisms  goes  on  to  infinity.  The  study  of  one  of  these 
organisms  therefore  takes  us  round  in  a circle,  as  if  every- 
thing was  a means  to  everything  else.  But  the  circle 
has  a centre,  none  the  less,  and  that  is  the  system  of  nervous 
elements  stretching  between  the  sensory  organs  and  the 
motor  apparatus. 

We  will  not  dwell  here  on  a point  we  have  treated  at 
length  in  a former  work.  Let  us  merely  recall  that  the 
progress  of  the  nervous  system  has  been  effected  both 
in  the  direction  of  a more  precise  adaptation  of  movements 
and  in  that  of  a greater  latitude  left  to  the  living  being 
to  choose  between  them.  These  two  tendencies  may 
appear  antagonistic,  and  indeed  they  are  so;  but  a nervous 
chain,  even  in  its  most  rudimentary  form,  successfully 
reconciles  them.  On  the  one  hand,  it  marks  a well-de- 

* Cuvier  said:  “The  nervous  system  is,  at  bottom,  the  whole  animal; 
the  other  systems  are  there  only  to  serve  it.”  (“Sur  un  nouveau 
rapprochement  k 6tablir  entre  les  classes  qui  composent  le  regne  ani- 
mal,” Arch,  du  Miiseum  d’histoire  naturelle,  Paris,  1812,  pp,  73-84.) 
Of  course,  it  would  be  necessary  to  apply  a great  many  restrictions 
to  this  formula — for  example,  to  allow  for  the  cases  of  degradation 
and  retrogression  in  which  the  nervous  system  passes  into  the  back- 
ground. And,  moreover,  with  the  nervous  system  must  be  included 
the  sensorial  apparatus  on  the  one  hand  and  the  motor  on  the  other, 
between  which  it  acts  as  intermediary.  Cf . Foster,  art.  ‘ ‘ Physiology,” 
in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  Edinburgh,  1885,  p.  17. 


126 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


fined  track  between  one  point  of  the  periphery  and  an- 
other, the  one  sensory,  the  other  motor.  It  has  therefore 
canalized  an  activity  which  was  originally  diffused  in  the 
protoplasmic  mass.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  elements 
that  compose  it  are  probably  discontinuous;  at  any  rate, 
even  supposing  they  anastomose,  they  exhibit  a functional 
discontinuity,  for  each  of  them  ends  in  a kind  of  cross- 
road where  probably  the  nervous  current  may  choose 
its  course.  From  the  humblest  Monera  to  the  best  endowed 
insects, ''and  up  to  the  most  intelligent  vertebrates,  the 
progress  realized  has  been  above  all  a progress  of  the  nervous 
system,  coupled  at  every  stage  with  all  the  new  construc- 
tions and  complications  of  mechanism  that  this  progress 
required.  As  we  foreshadowed  in  the  beginning  of  this 
work,  the  role  of  life  is  to  insert  some  indetermination  into 
matter.  Indeterminate,  i.e.  unforeseeable,  are  the  forms 
it  creates  in  the  course  of  its  evolution.  More  and  more 
indeterminate  also,  more  and  more  free,  is  the  activity 
to  which  these  forms  serve  as  the  vehicle.  A nervous 
system,  with  neurones  placed  end  to  end  in  such  wise  that, 
at  the  extremity  of  each,  manifold  ways  open  in  which 
manifold  questions  present  themselves,  is  a veritable 
reservoir  of  indetermination.  That  the  main  energy  of 
the  vital  impulse  has  been  spent  in  creating  apparatus 
of  this  kind  is,  we  believe,  what  a glance  over  the  organ- 
ized world  as  a whole  easily  shows.  But  concerning  the 
vital  impulse  itself  a few  explanations  are  necessary. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  force  which  is  evolv- 
ing throughout  the  organized  world  is  a limited  force, 
which  is  always  seeking  to  transcend  itself  and  always 
remains  inadequate  to  the  work  it  would  fain  produce. 
The  errors  and  puerilities  of  radical  finalism  are  due  to 
the  misapprehension  of  this  point.  It  has  represented 


II.] 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE 


127 


the  whole  of  the  living  world  as  a construction,  and  a 
construction  analogous  to  a human  work.  All  the  pieces 
have  been  arranged  with  a view  to  the  best  possible  func- 
tioning of  the  machine.  Each  species  has  its  reason  for 
existence,  its  part  to  play,  its  allotted  place;  and  all  join 
together,  as  it  were,  in  a musical  concert,  wherein  the 
seeming  discords  are  really  meant  to  bring  out  a funda- 
mental harmony.  In  short,  all  goes  on  in  nature  as  in 
the  works  of  human  genius,  where,  though  the  result 
may  be  trifling,  there  is  at  least  perfect  adequacy  between 
the  object  made  and  the  work  of  making  it. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  in  the  evolution  of  life.  There, 
the  disproportion  is  striking  between  the  work  and  the 
result.  From  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  the  organized 
world  we  do  indeed  find  one  great  effort;  but  most  often 
this  effort  turns  short,  sometimes  paralyzed  by  contrary 
forces,  sometimes  diverted  from  what  it  should  do  by 
what  it  does,  absorbed  by  the  form  it  is  engaged  in  tak- 
ing, hypnotized  by  it  as  by  a mirror.  Even  in  its  most 
perfect  works,  though  it  seems  to  have  triumphed  over 
external  resistances  and  also  over  its  own,  it  is  at  the 
mercy  of  the  materiality  which  it  has  had  to  assume. 
It  is  what  each  of  us  may  experience  in  himself.  Our 
freedom,  in  the  very  movements  by  which  it  is  affirmed, 
creates  the  growing  habits  that  will  stifle  it  if  it  fails  to 
renew  itself  by  a constant  effort : it  is  dogged  by  automa- 
tism. The  most  living  thought  becomes  frigid  in  the  for- 
mula that  expresses  it.  The  word  turns  against  the 
idea. 

The  letter  kills  the  spirit.  And  our  most  ardent  enthusi- 
asm, as  soon  as  it  is  externalized  into  action,  is  so  naturally 
congealed  into  the  cold  calculation  of  interest  or  vanity, 
the  one  takes  so  easily  the  shape  of  the  other,  that  we 
might  confuse  them  together,  doubt  our  own  sincerity. 


128 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


deny  goodness  and  love,  if  we  did  not  know  that  the  dead 
retain  for  a time  the  features  of  the  living. 

The  profound  cause  of  this  discordance  lies  in  an  ir- 
remediable difference  of  rhythm.  Life  in  general  is  mo- 
bility itself;  particular  manifestations  of  life  accept  this 
mobility  reluctantly,  and  constantly  lag  behind.  It  is 
always  going  ahead ; they  want  to  mark  time.  Evolution 
in  general  would  fain  go  on  in  a straight  line;  each  special 
evolution  is  a kind  of  circle.  Like  eddies  of  dust  raised 
by  the  wind  as  it  passes,  the  living  turn  upon  themselves, 
borne  up  by  the  great  blast  of  life.  They  are  therefore 
relatively  stable,  and  counterfeit  immobility  so  well 
that  we  treat  each  of  them  as  a thing  rather  than  as  a 
'progress,  forgetting  that  the  very  permanence  of  their 
form  is  only  the  outline  of  a movement.  At  times,  how- 
ever, in  a fleeting  vision,  the  invisible  breath  that  bears 
them  is  materialized  before  our  eyes.  We  have  this 
sudden  illumination  before  certain  forms  of  maternal 
love,  so  striking,  and  in  most  animals  so  touching,  ob- 
servable even  in  the  solicitude  of  the  plant  for  its  seed. 
This  love,  in  which  some  have  seen  the  great  mystery 
of  life,  may  possibly  deliver  us  life’s  secret.  It  shows  us 
each  generation  leaning  over  the  generation  that  shall 
follow.  It  allows  us  a glimpse  of  the  fact  that  the  living 
being  is  above  all  a thoroughfare,  and  that  the  essence  of 
life  is  in  the  movement  by  which  life  is  transmitted. 

This  contrast  between  life  in  general,  and  the  forms 
in  which  it  is  manifested,  has  everywhere  the  same  char- 
acter. It  might  be  said  that  life  tends  toward  the  ut- 
most possible  action,  but  that  each  species  prefers  to 
contribute  the  slightest  possible  effort.  Regarded  in  what 
constitutes  its  true  essence,  namely,  as  a transition  from 
species  to  species,  life  is  a continually  growing  action. 
But  each  of  the  species,  through  wRich  life  passes,  aims 


II.l 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE 


129 


only  at  its  own  convenience.  It  goes  for  that  which 
demands  the  least  labor.  Absorbed  in  the  form  it  is 
about  to  take,  it  falls  into  a partial  sleep,  in  which  it 
ignores  almost  all  the  rest  of  life;  it  fashions  itself  so 
as  to  take  the  greatest  possible  advantage  of  its  immediate 
environment  with  the  least  possible  trouble.  Accord- 
ingly, the  act  by  which  life  goes  forward  to  the  creation 
of  a new  form,  and  the  act  by  which  this  form  is  shaped, 
are  two  different  and  often  antagonistic  movements. 
The  first  is  continuous  with  the  second,  but  cannot  con- 
tinue in  it  without  being  drawn  aside  from  its  direction, 
as  would  happen  to  a man  leaping,  if,  in  order  to  clear 
the  obstacle,  he  had  to  turn  his  eyes  from  it  and  look  at 
himself  all  the  while. 

Living  forms  are,  by  their  very  definition,  forms  that 
are  able  to  live.  In  whatever  way  the  adaptation  of  the 
organism  to  its  circumstances  is  explained,  it  has  necessa- 
rily been  sufficient,  since  the  species  has  subsisted.  In 
this  sense,  each  of  the  successive  species  that  paleon- 
tology and  zoology  describes  was  a success  carried  off  by 
life.  But  we  get  a very  different  impression  when  we 
refer  each  species  to  the  movement  that  has  left  it  behind 
on  its  way,  instead  of  to  the  conditions  into  which  it  has 
been  set.  Often  this  movement  has  turned  aside;  very 
often,  too,  it  has  stopped  short;  what  was  to  have  been 
a thoroughfare  has  become  a terminus.  From  this  new 
point  of  view,  failure  seems  the  rule,  success  exceptional 
and  always  imperfect.  We  shall  see  that,  of  the  four 
main  directions  along  which  animal  life  bent  its  course, 
two  have  led  to  blind  alleys,  and,  in  the  other  two,  the 
effort  has  generally  been  out  of  proportion  to  the  result. 

Documents  are  lacking  to  reconstruct  this  history  in 
detail,  but  we  can  make  out  its  main  lines.  We  have 
already  said  that  animals  and  vegetables  must  have 


130 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


separated  soon  from  their  common  stock,  the  vegetable 
falling  asleep  in  immobility,  the  animal,  on  the  con- 
trary, becoming  more  and  more  awake  and  marching  on 
to  the  conquest  of  a nervous  system.  Probably  the  effort 
of  the  animal  kingdom  resulted  in  creating  organisms 
still  very  simple,  but  endowed  with  a certain  freedom 
of  action,  and,  above  all,  with  a shape  so  undecided  that 
it  could  lend  itself  to  any  future  determination.  These 
animals  may  have  resembled  some  of  our  worms,  but 
with  this  difference,  however,  that  the  worms  living  to- 
day, to  which  they  could  be  compared,  are  but  the  empty 
and  fixed  examples  of  infinitely  plastic  forms,  pregnant 
with  an  unlimited  future,  the  common  stock  of  the  echino- 
derms,  molluscs,  arthropods,  and  vertebrates. 

One  danger  lay  in  wait  for  them,  one  obstacle  which 
might  have  stopped  the  soaring  course  of  animal  life. 
There  is  one  peculiarity  with  which  we  cannot  help 
being  struck  when  glancing  over  the  fauna  of  primitive 
times,  namely,  the  imprisonment  of  the  animal  in  a more 
or  less  solid  sheath,  which  must  have  obstructed  and 
often  even  paralyzed  its  movements.  The  molluscs 
of  that  time  had  a shell  more  universally  than  those  of 
to-day.  The  arthropods  in  general  were  pro\fided  with  a 
carapace;  most  of  them  were  crustaceans.  The  more 
ancient  fishes  had  a bony  sheath  of  extreme  hardness.' 
The  explanation  of  this  general  fact  should  be  sought, 
we  believe,  in  a tendency  of  soft  organisms  to  defend 
themselves  against  one  another  by  making  themselves, 
as  far  as  possible,  undevourable.  Each  species,  in  the  act 
by  which  it  comes  into  being,  trends  towards  that  which 
is  most  expedient.  Just  as  among  primitive  organisms 
there  were  some  that  turned  towards  animal  life  by  re- 

> See,  on  these  different  points,  the  work  of  Gaudry,  Essai  de  paleon- 
tologie  philosophique,  Paris,  1896,  pp.  14-16  and  78-79. 


11.] 


DEVELOPMENT  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE  131 


fusing  to  manufacture  organic  out  of  inorganic  material 
and  taking  organic  substances  ready  made  from  organ- 
isms that  had  turned  toward  the  vegetative  life,  so,  among 
the  animal  species  themselves,  many  contrived  to  live 
at  the  expense  of  other  animals.  For  an  organism  that  is 
animal,  that  is  to  say  mobile,  can  avail  itself  of  its  mobility 
to  go  in  search  of  defenseless  animals,  and  feed  on  them 
quite  as  well  as  on  vegetables.  So,  the  more  species  be- 
came mobile,  the  more  they  became  voracious  and  danger- 
ous to  one  another.  Hence  a sudden  arrest  of  the  entire 
animal  world  in  its  progress  towards  higher  and  higher 
mobility;  for  the  hard  and  calcareous  skin  of  the  echino- 
derm,  the  shell  of  the  mollusc,  the  carapace  of  the  crustacean 
and  the  ganoid  breast-plate  of  the  ancient  fishes  probably 
all  originated  in  a common  effort  of  the  animal  species 
to  protect  themselves  against  hostile  species.  But  this 
breast-plate,  behind  which  the  animal  took  shelter, 
constrained  it  in  its  movements  and  sometimes  fixed 
it  in  one  place.  If  the  vegetable  renounced  consciousness 
in  wrapping  itself  in  a cellulose  membrane,  the  animal 
that  shut  itself  up  in  a citadel  or  in  armor  condemned 
itself  to  a partial  slumber.  In  this  torpor  the  echinoderms 
and  even  the  molluscs  live  to-day.  Probably  arthropods 
and  vertebrates  were  threatened  with  it  too.  They  escaped, 
however,  and  to  this  fortunate  circumstance  is  due  the 
expansion  of  the  highest  forms  of  life. 

In  two  directions,  in  fact,  we  see  the  impulse  of  life 
to  movement  getting  the  upper  hand  again.  The  fishes 
exchanged  their  ganoid  breast-plate  for  scales.  Long 
before  that,  the  insects  had  appeared,  also  disencumbered 
of  the  breast-plate  that  had  protected  their  ancestors. 
Both  supplemented  the  insufficiency  of  their  protective 
covering  by  an  agility  that  enabled  them  to  escape  their 
enemies,  and  also  to  assume  the  offensive,  to  choose  the 


132 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


place  and  the  moment  of  encounter.  We  see  a progress 
of  the  same  kind  in  the  evolution  of  human  armaments. 
The  first  impulse  is  to  seek  shelter;  the  second,  which  is 
the  better,  is  to  become  as  supple  as  possible  for  flight  and 
above  all  for  attack — attack  being  the  most  effective 
means  of  defense.  So  the  heavy  hoplite  was  supplanted 
by  the  legionary;  the  knight,  clad  in  armor,  had  to  give 
place  to  the  light  free-moving  infantryman;  and  in  a 
general  way,  in  the  evolution  of  life,  just  as  in  the  evo- 
lution ^'of  human  societies  and  of  individual  destinies,  the 
greatest  successes  have  been  for  those  who  have  accepted 
the  heaviest  risks. 

Evidently,  then,  it  was  to  the  animaTs  interest  to 
make  itself  more  mobile.  As  we  said  w^hen  speaking 
of  adaptation  in  general,  any  transformation  of  a species 
can  be  explained  by  its  own  particular  interest.  This 
will  give  the  immediate  cause  of  the  variation,  but  often 
only  the  most  superficial  cause.  The  profound  cause  is 
the  impulse  which  thrust  life  into  the  world,  w^hich  made 
it  divide  into  vegetables  and  animals,  which  shunted  the 
animal  on  to  suppleness  of  form,  and  w'hich,  at  a certain 
moment,  in  the  animal  kingdom  threatened  with  torpor, 
secured  that,  on  some  points  at  least,  it  should  rouse  itself 
up  and  move  forward. 

On  the  two  paths  along  which  the  vertebrates  and 
arthropods  have  separately  evolved,  development  (apart 
from  retrogressions  connected  with  parasitism  or  any 
other  cause)  has  consisted  above  all  in  the  progress  of 
the  sensori-motor  nervous  system.  Mobility  and  sup- 
pleness were  sought  for,  and  also — through  many  experi- 
mental attempts,  and  not  without  a tendency  to  excess 
of  substance  and  brute  force  at  the  start — variety  of  move- 
ments. But  this  quest  itself  took  place  in  divergent 
directions.  A glance  at  the  nervous  system  of  the  arthro- 


ii.i  DEVELOPMENT  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE  133 

pods  and  that  of  the  vertebrates  shows  us  the  difference. 
In  the  arthropods,  the  body  is  formed  of  a series  more  or 
less  long  of  rings  set  together;  motor  activity  is  thus 
distributed  amongst  a varying — sometimes  a considerable 
— number  of  appendages,  each  of  which  has  its  special 
function.  In  the  vertebrates,  activity  is  concentrated 
in  two  pairs  of  members  only,  and  these  organs  perform 
functions  which  depend  much  less  strictly  on  their  form.‘ 
The  independence  becomes  complete  in  man,  whose  hand 
is  capable  of  any  kind  of  work. 

That,  at  least,  is  what  we  see.  But  behind  what  is 
seen  there  is  what  may  be  surmised — two  powers,  im- 
manent in  life  and  originally  intermingled,  which  were 
bound  to  part  company  in  course  of  growth. 

To  define  these  powers,  we  must  consider,  in  the  evo- 
lution both  of  the  arthropods  and  the  vertebrates,  the 
species  which  mark  the  culminating  point  of  each.  How 
is  this  point  to  be  determined?  Here  again,  to  aim  at 
geometrical  precision  will  lead  us  astray.  There  is  no 
single  simple  sign  by  which  we  can  recognize  that  one 
species  is  more  advanced  than  another  on  the  same  line 
of  evolution.  There  are  manifold  characters,  that  must 
be  compared  and  weighed  in  each  particular  case,  in  order 
to  ascertain  to  what  extent  they  are  essential  or  acci- 
dental and  how  far  they  must  be  taken  into  account. 

It  is  unquestionable,  for  example,  that  success  is  the 
most  general  criterion  of  superiority,  the  two  terms  being, 
up  to  a certain  point,  synonymous.  By  success  must  be 
understood,  so  far  as  the  living  being  is  concerned,  an 
aptitude  to  develop  in  the  most  diverse  environments, 
through  the  greatest  possible  variety  of  obstacles,  so  as  to 
cover  the  widest  possible  extent  of  ground.  A species 

^ See,  on  this  subject,  Shaler,  The  Individual^  New  York,  1900,  pp. 
118-125. 


134 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


rCHAP. 


which  claims  the  entire  earth  for  its  domain  is  truly  a 
dominating  and  consequently  superior  species.  Such 
is  the  human  species,  which  represents  the  culminating 
point  of  the  evolution  of  the  vertebrates.  But  such  also 
are,  in  the  series  of  the  articulate,  the  insects  and  in  partic- 
ular certain  hymenoptera.  It  has  been  said  of  the  ants 
that,  as  man  is  lord  of  the  soil,  they  are  lords  of  the  sub-soil. 

On  the  other  hand,  a group  of  species  that  has  appeared 
late  may  be  a group  of  degenerates;  but,  for  that,  some 
special  cause  of  retrogression  must  have  intervened. 
By  right,  this  group  should  be  superior  to  the  group  from 
which  it  is  derived,  since  it  would  correspond  to  a more 
advanced  stage  of  evolution.  Now  man  is  probably 
the  latest  comer  of  the  vertebrates and  in  the  insect 
series  no  species  is  later  than  the  hymenoptera,  unless 
it  be  the  lepidoptera,  which  are  probably  degenerates, 
living  parasitically  on  flowering  plants. 

So,  by  different  ways,  v/e  are  led  to  the  same  conclusion. 
The  evolution  of  the  arthropods  reaches  its  culminating 
point  in  the  insect,  and  in  particular  in  the  hymenoptera, 
as  that  of  the  vertebrates  in  man.  Now,  since  instinct 
is  nowhere  so  developed  as  in  the  insect  world,  and  in  no 
group  of  insects  so  marvelously  as  in  the  hymenoptera,  it 
may  be  said  that  the  whole  evolution  of  the  animal  king- 
dom, apart  from  retrogressions  towards  vegetative  life, 
has  taken  place  on  two  divergent  paths,  one  of  which  led 
to  instinct  and  the  other  to  intelligence. 

1 This  point  is  disputed  by  M.  Rene  Quinton,  who  regards  the  car- 
nivorous and  ruminant  mammals,  as  well  as  certain  birds,  as  subse- 
quent to  man  (R.  Quinton,  L’E'au  de  mer  mih'en  organique,  Paris,  1904, 
p.  435).  We  may  say  here  that  our  general  conclusions,  although 
very  different  from  M.  Quinton’s,  are  not  irreconcilable  with  them; 
for  if  evolution  has  really  been  such  as  we  represent  it,  the  vertebrates 
must  have  made  an  effort  to  maintain  themselves  in  the  most  favor- 
able conditions  of  activity — the  very  conditions,  indeed,  which  life 
had  chosen  in  the  beginning. 


ii.l  DEVELOPMENT  OF  ANLMAL  LIFE  135 

Vegetative  torpor,  instinct,  and  intelligence — these, 
then,  are  the  elements  that  coincided  in  the  vital  impulsion 
common  to  plants  and  animals,  and  which,  in  the  course 
of  a development  in  which  they  were  made  manifest  in 
the  most  unforeseen  forms,  have  been  dissociated  by  the 
very  fact  of  their  growth.  The  cardinal  error  which,  from 
Aristotle  onwards,  has  vitiated  most  of  the  philosophies  of 
nature,  is  to  see  in  vegetative,  instinctive  and  rational  life, 
three  successive  degrees  of  the  development  of  one  and  the 
same  tendency,  whereas  they  are  three  divergent  directions 
of  an  activity  that  has  split  up  as  it  grew.  The  difference 
between  them  is  not  a difference  of  intensity,  nor,  more 
generally,  of  degree,  but  of  kind. 

It  is  important  to  investigate  this  point.  We  have 
seen  in  the  case  of  vegetable  and  animal  life  how^  they 
are  at  once  mutually  complementary  and  mutually  an- 
tagonistic. Now  we  must  show  that  intelligence  and 
instinct  also  are  opposite  and  complementary.  But 
let  us  first  explain  why  we  are  generally  led  to  regard 
them  as  activities  of  which  one  is  superior  to  the  other 
and  based  upon  it,  whereas  in  reality  they  are  not  things 
of  the  same  order:  they  have  not  succeeded  one  another, 
nor  can  we  assign  to  them  different  grades. 

It  is  because  intelligence  and  instinct,  having  origin- 
ally been  interpenetrating,  retain  something  of  their 
common  origin.  Neither  is  ever  found  in  a pure  state. 
We  said  that  in  the  plant  the  consciousness  and  mobility 
of  the  animal,  which  lie  dormant,  can  be  awakened;  and 
that  the  animal  lives  under  the  constant  menace  of  being 
drawn  aside  to  the  vegetative  life.  The  two  tendencies 
— that  of  the  plant  and  that  of  the  animal — were  so  thor- 
oughly interpenetrating,  to  begin  with,  that  there  has 
never  been  a complete  severance  between  them:  they 


13G 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


haunt  each  other  continually;  everywhere  we  find  them 
mingled;  it  is  the  proportion  that  differs.  So  with  in- 
telligence and  instinct.  There  is  no  intelligence  in  which 
some  traces  of  instinct  are  not  to  be  discovered,  more 

(especially  no  instinct  that  is  not  surrounded  with  a 
fringe  of  intelligence.  It  is  this  fringe  of  intelligence 
that  has  been  the  cause  of  so  many  misunderstandings. 
From  the  fact  that  instinct  is  always  more  or  less  in- 
telligent, it  has  been  concluded  that  instinct  and  intelligence 
are  things  of  the  same  kind,  that  there  is  only  a difference 
of  complexity  or  perfection  between  them,  and,  above  all, 
that  one  of  the  two  is  expressible  in  terms  of  the  other. 
In  reality,  they  accompany  each  other  only  because  they 
are  complementary,  and  they  are  complementary  only 
because  they  are  different,  what  is  instinctive  in  instinct 
being  opposite  to  what  is  intelligent  in  intelligence. 

We  are  bound  to  dwell  on  this  point.  It  is  one  of  the 
utmost  importance. 

Let  us  say  at  the  outset  that  the  distinctions  we  are 
going  to  make  will  be  too  sharply  drawn,  just  because  we 
wish  to  define  in  instinct  what  is  instinctive,  and  in  intelli- 
gence what  is  intelligent,  whereas  all  concrete  instinct  is 
mingled  with  intelligence,  as  all  real  intelligence  is  pene- 
trated by  instinct.  Moreover,  neither  intelligence  nor 
instinct  lends  itself  to  rigid  definition : they  are  tendencies, 
and  not  things.  Also,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  in  the 
present  chapter  we  are  considering  intelligence  and  instinct 
as  going  out  of  life  which  deposits  them  along  its  course. 
Now  the  life  manifested  by  an  organism  is,  in  our  view, 
a certain  effort  to  obtain  certain  things  from  the  material 
world.  No  w’onder,  therefore,  if  it  is  the  diversity  of  this 
effort  that  strikes  us  in  instinct  and  intelligence,  and  if 
we  see  in  these  two  modes  of  psychical  activity,  above 
all  else,  two  different  methods  of  action  on  inert  matter. 


II.l 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


137 


This  rather  narrow  view  of  them  has  the  advantage  of 
giving  us  an  objective  means  of  distinguishing  them.  In 
return,  however,  it  gives  us,  of  intelligence  in  general 
and  of  instinct  in  general,  only  the  mean  position  above  and 
below  which  both  constantly  oscillate.  For  that  reason 
the  reader  must  expect  to  see  in  what  follows  only  a dia- 
grammatic drawing,  in  which  the  respective  outlines 
of  intelligence  and  instinct  are  sharper  than  they  should 
be,  and  in  which  the  shading-off  which  comes  from  the 
indecision  of  each  and  from  their  reciprocal  encroachment 
on  one  another  is  neglected.  In  a matter  so  obscure, 
we  cannot  strive  too  hard  for  clearness.  It  will  always  be 
easy  afterwards  to  soften  the  outlines  and  to  correct  what 
is  too  geometrical  in  the  drawing — in  short,  to  replace 
the  rigidity  of  a diagram  by  the  suppleness  of  life. 

To  what  date  is  it  agreed  to  ascribe  the  appearance 
of  man  on  the  earth?  To  the  period  when  the  first 
weapons,  the  first  tools,  were  made.  The  memorable 
quarrel  over  the  discovery  of  Boucher  de  Perthes  in  the 
quarry  of  Moulin-Quignon  is  not  forgotten.  The  question 
was  whether  real  hatchets  had  been  found  or  merely 
bits  of  flint  accidentally  broken.  But  that,  supposing 
they  were  hatchets,  we  were  indeed  in  the  presence  of 
intelligence,  and  more  particularly  of  human  intelligence, 
no  one  doubted  for  an  instant.  Now  let  us  open  a col- 
lection of  anecdotes  on  the  intelligence  of  animals:  we 
shall  see  that  besides  many  acts  explicable  by  imitation 
or  by  the  automatic  association  of  images,  there  are  some 
that  we  do  not  hesitate  to  call  intelligent : foremost  among 
them  are  those  that  bear  witness  to  some  idea  of  manu- 
facture, whether  the  animal  life  succeeds  in  fashioning  a 
crude  instrument  or  uses  for  its  profit  an  object  made  by 
man.  The  animals  that  rank  immediately  after  man  in 


138 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  matter  of  intelligence,  the  apes  and  elephants,  are 
those  that  can  use  an  artificial  instmment  occasionally. 
Below,  but  not  very  far  from  them,  come  those  that 
recognize  a constructed  object:  for  example,  the  fox,  which 
knows  quite  well  that  a trap  is  a trap.  No  doubt,  there  is 
intelligence  wherever  there  is  inference;  but  inference, 
which  consists  in  an  inflection  of  past  experience  in  the 
direction  of  present  experience,  is  already  a beginning 
of  invention.  Invention  becomes  complete  when  it  is 
materialized  in  a manufactured  instrument.  Towards 
that  achievement  the  intelligence  of  animals  tends  as 
towards  an  ideal.  And  though,  ordinarily,  it  does  not 
yet  succeed  in  fashioning  artificial  objects  and  in  making 
use  of  them,  it  is  preparing  for  this  by  the  very  variations 
which  it  performs  on  the  instincts  furnished  by  nature. 
As  regards  human  intelligence,  it  has  not  been  sufficiently 
noted  that  mechanical  invention  has  been  from  the  first 
its  essential  feature,  that  even  to-day  our  social  life  gra\d- 
tates  around  the  manufacture  and  use  of  artificial  instru- 
ments, that  the  inventions  which  strew  the  road  of  progress 
have  also  traced  its  direction.  This  we  hardly  realize, 
because  it  takes  us  longer  to  change  ourselves  than  to 
change  our  tools.  Our  individual  and  even  social  habits 
survive  a good  while  the  circumstances  for  which  they  were 
made,^o  that  the  ultimate  effects  of  an  invention  are  not 
observed  until  its  novelty  is  already  out  of  sigh^  A 
century  has  elapsed  since  the  invention  of  the  steam- 
engine,  and  we  are  only  just  beginning  to  feel  the  depths 
of  the  shock  it  gave  us.  But  the  revolution  it  has  effected 
in  industry  has  nevertheless  upset  human  relations  al- 
together. New  ideas  are  arising,  new  feelings  are  on  the 
way  to  flower.  In  thousands  of  years,  when,  seen  from 
the  distance,  only  the  broad  lines  of  the  present  age  will 
still  be  visible,  our  wars  and  our  revolutions  will  count  for 


II.l 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


139 


little,  even  supposing  they  are  remembered  at  all;  but  the 
steam-engine,  and  the  procession  of  inventions  of  every 
kind  that  accompanied  it,  will  perhaps  be  spoken  of  as  we 
speak  of  the  bronze  or  of  the  chipped  stone  of  pre-historic 
times:  it  will  serve  to  define  an  age.*  If  we  could  rid  our- 
selves of  all  pride,  if,  to  define  our  species,  we  kept  strictly 
to  what  the  historic  and  the  prehistoric  periods  show  us 
to  be  the  constant  characteristic  of  man  and  of  intelli- 
gence, we  should  say  not  Homo  sapiens,  but  Homo  faher. 
In  short,  intelligence,  considered  in  what  seems  to  he  its 
original  feature,  is  the  faculty  of  manufacturing  artificial 
objects,  especially  tools  to  make  tools,  and  of  indefinitely 
varying  the  manufacture. 

Now,  does  an  unintelligent  animal  also  possess  tools 
or  machines?  Yes,  certainly,  but  here  the  instrument 
forms  a part  of  the  body  that  uses  it;  and,  correspond- 
ing to  this  instrument,  there  is  an  instinct  that  knows  how 
to  use  it.  True,  it  cannot  be  maintained  that  all  instincts 
consist  in  a natural  ability  to  use  an  inborn  mechanism. 
Such  a definition  would  not  apply  to  the  instincts  which 
Romanes  called  ‘‘secondary’’;  and  more  than  one  “pri- 
mary” instinct  would  not  come  under  it.  But  this  defi- 
nition, like  that  which  we  have  provisionally  given  of 
intelligence,  determines  at  least  the  ideal  limit  toward 
which  the  very  numerous  forms  of  instinct  are  traveling. 
Indeed,  it  has  often  been  pointed  out  that  most  instincts 
are  only  the  continuance,  or  rather  the  consummation, 
of  the  work  of  organization  itself.  Where  does  the  activity 
of  instinct  begin?  and  where  does  that  of  nature  end?  • We 
cannot  tell.  In  the  metamorphoses  of  the  larva  into  the 
nymph  and  into  the  perfect  insect,  metamorphoses  that 

* M.  Paul  Lacombe  has  laid  great  stress  on  the  important  influence 
that  great  inventions  have  exercised  on  the  evolution  of  humanity  (P. 
Lacombe,  De  Vhistoire  consideree  comme  science,  Paris,  1894.  See,  in 
particular,  pp.  168-247). 


140 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


often  require  appropriate  action  and  a kind  of  initiative 
on  the  part  of  the  larva,  there  is  no  sharp  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  the  instinct  of  the  animal  and  the  organizing 
work  of  living  matter.  We  may  say,  as  we  will,  either  that 
instinct  organizes  the  instruments  it  is  about  to  use,  or 
that  the  process  of  organization  is  continued  in  the  instinct 
that  has  to  use  the  organ.  The  most  marvelous  instincts 
of  the  insect  do  nothing  but  develop  its  special  structure 
into  movements:  indeed,  where  social  life  di\ddes  the 
labor  among  different  individuals,  and  thus  allots  them 
different  instincts,  a corresponding  difference  of  structure 
is  observed:  the  polymorphism  of  ants,  bees,  wasps  and 
certain  pseudoneuroptera  is  well  known.  Thus,  if  w^e 
consider  only  those  typical  cases  in  which  the  complete 
triumph  of  intelligence  and  of  instinct  is  seen,  we  find 
this  essential  difference  between  them:  instinct  'perfected 
is  a faculty  of  using  and  even  of  constructing  organized 
instruments;  intelligence  perfected  is  the  faculty  of  making 
and  using  unorganized  instruments. 

The  advantages  and  drawbacks  of  these  two  modes 
of  activity  are  obvious.  Instinct  finds  the  appropriate 
instrument  at  hand:  this  instrument,  w^hich  makes  and 
repairs  itself,  which  presents,  like  all  the  works  of  nature, 
an  infinite  complexity  of  detail  combined  with  a marvelous 
simplicity  of  function,  does  at  once,  when  required,  what 
it  is  called  upon  to  do,  without  difficulty  and  with  a per- 
fection that  is  often  wonderful.  In  return,  it  retains  an 
almost  invariable  structure,  since  a modification  of  it 
involves  a modification  of  the  species.  Instinct  is  there- 
fore necessarily  specialized,  being  nothing  but  the  utili- 
zation of  a specific  instrument  for  a specific  object.  The 
instrument  constructed  intelligently,  on  the  contrary, 
is  an  imperfect  instrument.  It  costs  an  effort.  It  is 
generally  troublesome  to  handle.  But,  as  it  is  made  of 


II.l 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


141 


unorganized  matter,  it  can  take  any  form  whatsoever, 
serve  any  purpose,  free  the  living  being  from  every  new 
difficulty  that  arises  and  bestow  on  it  an  unlimited  number 
of  powers.  Whilst  it  is  inferior  to  the  natural  instrument 
for  the  satisfaction  of  immediate  wants,  its  advantage 
over  it  is  the  greater,  the  less  urgent  the  need.  Above 
all,  it  reacts  on  the  nature  of  the  being  that  constructs 
it;  for  in  calling  on  him  to  exercise  a new  function,  it 
confers  on  him,  so  to  speak,  a richer  organization,  being 
an  artificial  organ  by  which  the  natural  organism  is  ex- 
tended. For  every  need  that  it  satisfies,  it  creates  a new 
need;  and  so,  instead  of  closing,  like  instinct,  the  round  of 
action  within  which  the  animal  tends  to  move  auto- 
matically, it  lays  open  to  activity  an  unlimited  field  into 
which  it  is  driven  further  and  further,  and  made  more 
and  more  free.  But  this  advantage  of  intelligence  over 
instinct  only  appears  at  a late  stage,  when  intelligence, 
having  raised  construction  to  a higher  degree,  proceeds 
to  construct  constructive  machinery.  At  the  outset,  the 
advantages  and  drawbacks  of  the  artificial  instrument  and  of 
the  natural  instrument  balance  so  well  that  it  is  hard  to  fore- 
tell which  of  the  two  will  secure  to  the  living  being  the 
greater  empire  over  nature. 

We  may  surmise  that  they  began  by  being  implied 
in  each  other,  that  the  original  psychical  activity  included 
both  at  once,  and  that,  if  we  went  far  enough  back  into  the 
past,  we  should  find  instincts  more  nearly  approaching 
intelligence  than  those  of  our  insects,  intelligence  nearer 
to  instinct  than  that  of  our  vertebrates,  intelligence  and 
instinct  being,  in  this  elementary  condition,  prisoners  of  a 
matter  which  they  are  not  yet  able  to  control.  If  the  force 
immanent  in  life  were  an  unlimited  force,  it  might  perhaps 
have  developed  instinct  and  intelligence  together,  and  to 
any  extent,  in  the  same  organisms.  But  everything  seems 


142 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CIL\P 


to  indicate  that  this  force  is  limited,  and  that  it  soon 
exhausts  itself  in  its  very  manifestation.  It  is  hard  for 
it  to  go  far  in  several  directions  at  once:  it  must  choose. 
Now,  it  has  the  choice  between  two  modes  of  acting  on 
the  material  world:  it  can  either  effect  this  action  directly 
by  creating  an  organized  instrument  to  work  with;  or  else 
it  can  effect  it  indirectly  through  an  organism  which,  in- 
stead of  possessing  the  required  instrument  naturally, 
will  itself  construct  it  by  fashioning  inorganic  matter. 
Hence  intelligence  and  instinct,  which  diverge  more  and 
more  as  they  develop,  but  which  never  entirely  separate 
from  each  other.  On  the  one  hand,  the  most  perfect 
instinct  of  the  insect  is  accompanied  by  gleams  of  intelli- 
gence, if  only  in  the  choice  of  place,  time  and  materials 
of  construction:  the  bees,  for  example,  when  by  exception 
they  build  in  the  open  air,  invent  new  and  really  intelligent 
arrangements  to  adapt  themselves  to  such  new  con- 
ditions. ^ But,  on  the  other  hand,  intelligence  has  even 
mmre  need  of  instinct  than  instinct  has  of  intelligence; 
for  the  power  to  give  shape  to  crude  matter  involves  al- 
ready a superior  degree  of  organization,  a degree  to  which 
the  animal  could  not  have  risen,  save  on  the  wings  of 
instinct.  So,  while  nature  has  frankly  evolved  in  the  di- 
rection of  instinct  in  the  arthropods,  we  observ^e  in  almost 
all  the  vertebrates  the  striving  after  rather  than  the  ex- 
pansion of  intelligence.  It  is  instinct  still  which  forms 
the  basis  of  their  psychical  activity;  but  intelligence  is 
there,  and  would  fain  supersede  it.  Intelligence  does  not 
yet  succeed  in  inventing  instruments;  but  at  least  it  tries 
by  performing  as  many  variations  as  possible  on  the 
instinct  which  it  would  like  to  dispense  with.  It  gains 
complete  self-possession  only  in  man,  and  this  triumph 

‘ Bouvier,  “La  Nidification  des  abeilles  a Tair  libre”  (C.  R.  de  VAc. 
des  sciences,  7 mai  1906). 


II.l 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


143 


is  attested  by  the  very  insufficiency  of  the  natural  means 
at  man’s  disposal  for  defense  against  his  enemies,  against 
cold  and  hunger.  This  insufficiency,  when  we  strive  to 
fathom  its  significance,  acquires  the  value  of  a prehistoric 
document;  it  is  the  final  leave-taking  between  intelli- 
gence and  instinct.  But  it  is  no  less  true  that  nature 
must  have  hesitated  between  two  modes  of  psychical 
activity — one  assured  of  immediate  success,  but  limited 
in  its  effects;  the  other  hazardous,  but  whose  conquests, 
if  it  should  reach  independence,  might  be  extended  in- 
definitely. Here  again,  then,  the  greatest  success  was 
achieved  on  the  side  of  the  greatest  risk.  Instinct  and 
intelligence  therefore  represent  two  divergent  solutions, 
equally  fitting,  of  one  and  the  same  problem. 

There  ensue,  it  is  true,  profound  differences  of  internal 
structure  between  instinct  and  intelligence.  We  shall 
dwell  only  on  those  that  concern  our  present  study.  Let 
us  say,  then,  that  instinct  and  intelligence  imply  two 
radically  different  kinds  of  knowledge.  But  some  ex- 
planations are  first  of  all  necessary  on  the  subject  of  con- 
sciousness in  general. 

It  has  been  asked  how  far  instinct  is  conscious.  Our 
reply  is  that  there  are  a vast  number  of  differences  and 
degrees,  that  instinct  is  more  or  less  conscious  in  certain 
cases,  unconscious  in  others.  The  plant,  as  we  shall  see, 
has  instincts;  it  is  not  likely  that  these  are  accompanied 
by  feeling.  Even  in  the  animal  there  is  hardly  any  com- 
plex instinct  that  is  not  unconscious  in  some  part  at  least 
of  its  exercise.  But  here  we  must  point  out  a difference, 
not  often  noticed,  between  two  kinds  of  unconsciousness, 
viz.,  that  in  which  consciousness  is  absent,  and  that  in  which 
consciousness  is  nullified.  Both  are  equal  to  zero,  but  in 
one  case  the  zero  expresses  the  fact  that  there  is  nothing, 
in  the  other  that  we  have  two  equal  quantities  of  opposite 


144 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


sign  which  compensate  and  neutralize  each  other.  The 
unconsciousness  of  a falling  stone  is  of  the  former  kind: 
the  stone  has  no  feeling  of  its  fall.  Is  it  the  same  with 
the  unconsciousness  of  instinct,  in  the  extreme  cases  in 
w’hich  instinct  is  unconscious?  When  we  mechanicall}^ 
perform  an  habitual  action,  when  the  somnambulist 
automatically  acts  his  dream,  unconsciousness  may  be 
absolute;  but  this  is  merely  due  to  the  fact  that  the  re- 
presentation of  the  act  is  held  in  check  by  the  performance 
of  the  act  itself,  which  resembles  the  idea  so  perfectly, 
and  fits  it  so  exactly,  that  consciousness  is  unable  to  find 
room  between  them.  Representation  is  stopped  up  by 
action.  The  proof  of  this  is,  that  if  the  accomplishment 
of  the  act  is  arrested  or  thwarted  by  an  obstacle,  con- 
sciousness may  reappear.  It  w'as  there,  but  neutralized 
by  the  action  w^hich  fulfiled  and  thereby  filled  the  repre- 
sentation. The  obstacle  creates  nothing  positive;  it  simply 
makes  a void,  removes  a stopper.  This  inadequacy  of  act  to 
representation  is  precisely  what  we  here  call  consciousness. 

If  we  examine  this  point  more  closely,  we  shall  find 
that  consciousness  is  the  light  that  plays  around  the 
zone  of  possible  actions  or  potential  acthdty  which  sur- 
rounds the  action  really  performed  by  the  Ihing  being. 
It  signifies  hesitation  or  choice.  Vdiere  many  equally 
possible  actions  are  indicated  wdthout  there  being  any  real 
action  (as  in  a deliberation  that  has  not  come  to  an  end), 
consciousness  is  intense.  'Where  the  action  performed 
is  the  only  action  possible  (as  in  acti\dty  of  the  somnam- 
bulistic or  more  generally  automatic  kind),  consciousness 
is  reduced  to  nothing.  Representation  and  knowledge 
exist  none  the  less  in  the  case  if  we  find  a whole  series  of 
systematized  movements  the  last  of  which  is  already  pre- 
figured in  the  first,  and  if,  besides,  consciousness  can  flash 
out  of  them  at  the  shock  of  an  obstacle.  From  this  point 


11.] 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


145 


of  view,  the  consciousness  of  a living  being  may  be  defined  as 
an  arithmetical  difference  between  potential  and  real  activity. 
It  measures  the  interval  between  representation  and  action. 

It  may  be  inferred  from  this  that  intelligence  is  likely 
to  point  towards  consciousness,  and  instinct  towards  un- 
consciousness. For,  where  the  implement  to  be  used  is 
organized  by  nature,  the  material  furnished  by  nature, 
and  the  result  to  be  obtained  willed  by  nature,  there  is 
little  left  to  choice;  the  consciousnesss  inherent  in  the 
representation  is  therefore  counterbalanced,  whenever  it 
tends  to  disengage  itself,  by  the  performance  of  the  act, 
identical  with  the  representation,  which  forms  its  counter- 
weight. Where  consciousness  appears,  it  does  not  so 
much  light  up  the  instinct  itself  as  the  thwartings  to  which 
instinct  is  subject;  it  is  the  deficit  of  instinct,  the  distance, 
between  the  act  and  the  idea,  that  becomes  consciousness 
so  that  consciousness,  here,  is  only  an  accident.  Es- 
sentially, consciousness  only  emphasizes  the  starting- 
point  of  instinct,  the  point  at  which  the  whole  series  of 
automatic  movements  is  released.  Deficit,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  the  normal  state  of  intelligence.  Laboring  under 
difficulties  is  its  very  essence.  Its  original  function  being 
to  construct  unorganized  instruments,  it  must,  in  spite 
of  numberless  difficulties,  choose  for  this  work  the  place 
and  the  time,  the  form  and  the  matter.  And  it  can  never 
satisfy  itself  entirely,  because  every  new  satisfaction 
creates  new  needs.  In  short,  while  ipstinct  and  intelli- 
gence both  involve  knowledge,  this  knowledge  is  rather 
acted  and  unconscious  in  the  case  of  instinct,  thought  and 
conscious  in  the  case  of  intelligence.  But  it  is  a difference 
rather  of  degree  than  of  kind.  So  long  as  consciousness 
is  all  we  are  concerned  with,  we  close  our  eyes  to  what  is, 
from  the  psychological  point  of  view,  the  cardinal  difference 
between  instinct  and  intelligence. 


146 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


In  order  to  get  at  this  essential  difference  we  must, 
without  stopping  at  the  more  or  less  brilliant  light  which 
illumines  these  two  modes  of  internal  activity,  go  straight 
to  the  two  objects,  profoundly  different  from  each  other, 
upon  which  instinct  and  intelligence  are  directed. 

When  the  horse-fly  lays  its  eggs  on  the  legs  or  shoulders 
of  the  horse,  it  acts  as  if  it  knew  that  its  larva  has  to  develop 
in  the  horse’s  stomach  and  that  the  horse,  in  licking  itself, 
will  convey  the  larva  into  its  digestive  tract.  When  a 
paralyzing  wasp  stings  its  victim  on  just  those  points 
where  the  nervous  centres  lie,  so  as  to  render  it  motionless 
without  killing  it,  it  acts  like  a learned  entomologist  and  a 
skilful  surgeon  rolled  into  one.  But  what  shall  we  say  of 
the  little  beetle,  the  Sitaris,  whose  story  is  so  often  quoted? 
This  insect  lays  its  eggs  at  the  entrance  of  the  under- 
ground passages  dug  by  a kind  of  bee,  the  Anthophora. 
Its  larva,  after  long  waiting,  springs  upon  the  male  Antho- 
phora as  it  goes  out  of  the  passage,  clings  to  it,  and  re- 
mains attached  until  the  ‘‘nuptial  flight,”  when  it  seizes 
the  opportunity  to  pass  from  the  male  to  the  female,  and 
quietly  waits  until  it  lays  its  eggs.  It  then  leaps  on  the  egg, 
which  serves  as  a support  for  it  in  the  honey,  devours  the 
egg  in  a few  days,  and,  resting  on  the  shell,  undergoes  its 
first  metamorphosis.  Organized  now  to  float  on  the  honey, 
it  consumes  this  provision  of  nourishment,  and  becomes 
a nymph,  then  a perfect  insect.  Everything  happens  as 
if  the  larva  of  the  Sitaris,  from  the  moment  it  was  hatched, 
knew  that  the  male  Anthophora  would  first  emerge  from 
the  passage;  that  the  nuptial  flight  would  give  it  the  means 
of  conveying  itself  to  the  female,  who  would  take  it  to  a 
store  of  honey  sufficient  to  feed  it  after  its  transformation; 
that,  until  this  transformation,  it  could  gradually  eat 
the  egg  of  the  Anthophora,  in  such  a way  that  it  could 
at  the  same  time  feed  itself,  maintain  itself  at  the  surface 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


147 


II. 1 

of  the  honey,  and  also  suppress  the  rival  that  otherwise 
would  have  come  out  of  the  egg.  And  equally  all  this 
happens  as  if  the  Sitaris  itself  knew  that  its  larva  would 
know  all  these  things.  The  knowledge,  if  knowledge  there 
be,  is  only  implicit.  It  is  reflected  outwardly  in  exact 
movements  instead  of  being  reflected  inwardly  in  conscious- 
ness. It  is  none  the  less  true  that  the  behavior  of  the  insect 
involves,  or  rather  evolves,  the  idea  of  deflnite  things 
existing  or  being  produced  in  definite  points  of  space 
and  time,  which  the  insect  knows  without  having  learned 
them. 

Now,  if  we  look  at  intelligence  from  the  same  point 
of  view,  we  find  that  it  also  knows  certain  things  with- 
out having  learned  them.  But  the  knowdedge  in  the 
two  cases  is  of  a very  different  order.  We  must  be  careful 
here  not  to  revive  again  the  old  philosophical  dispute 
on  the  subject  of  innate  ideas.  So  we  will  confine  our- 
selves to  the  point  on  which  every  one  is  agreed,  to  wit, 
that  the  young  child  understands  immediately  things  that 
the  animal  will  never  understand,  and  that  in  this  sense 
intelligence,  like  instinct,  is  an  inherited  function,  there- 
fore an  innate  one.  But  this  innate  intelligence,  although 
it  is  a faculty  of  knowing,  knows  no  object  in  particular. 
When  the  new-born  babe  seeks  for  the  first  time  its  mother’s 
breast,  so  showing  that  it  has  knowledge  (unconscious, 
no  doubt)  of  a thing  it  has  never  seen,  we  say,  just  because 
the  innate  knowledge  is  in  this  case  of  a definite  obiect, 
that  it  belongs  to  instinct  and  not  to  intelligence.  Intelli- 
gence does  not  then  imply  the  innate  knowledge  of  any 
object.  And  yet,  if  intelhgence  knows  nothing  by  nature, 
it  has  nothing  innate.  What,  then,  if  it  be  ignorant  of 
all  things,  can  it  know?  Besides  things,  there  are  relations. 
The  new-born  child,  so  far  as  intelligent,  knows  neither 
definite  objects  nor  a definite  property  of  any  object; 


148 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


but  when,  a little  later  on,  he  will  hear  an  epithet  being 
applied  to  a substantive,  he  will  immediately  understand 
what  it  means.  The  relation  of  attribute  to  subject  is 
therefore  seized  by  him  naturally,  and  the  same  might  be 
said  of  the  general  relation  expressed  by  the  verb,  a re- 
lation so  immediately  conceived  by  the  mind  that  language 
can  leave  it  to  be  understood,  as  is  instanced  in  rudimentary 
languages  which  have  no  verb.  Intelligence,  therefore, 
naturally  makes  use  of  relations  of  like  with  like,  of  con- 
tent to  container,  of  cause  to  effect,  etc.,  which  are  implied 
in  every  phrase  in  which  there  is  a subject,  an  attribute  and 
a verb,  expressed  or  understood.  May  one  say  that  it  has 
innate  knowledge  of  each  of  these  relations  in  particular? 
It  is  for  logicians  to  discover  whether  they  are  so  many 
irreducible  relations,  or  whether  they  can  be  resolved 
into  relations  still  more  general.  But,  in  whatever  way 
we  make  the  analysis  of  thought,  we  always  end  with  one 
or  several  general  categories,  of  which  the  mind  possesses 
innate  knowledge  since  it  makes  a natural  use  of  them. 
Let  us  say,  therefore,  that  whatever,  in  instinct  and  intelli- 
gence, is  innate  knowledge,  hears  in  the  first  case  on  things 
and  in  the  second  on  relations. 

Philosophers  distinguish  between  the  matter  of  our 
knowledge  and  its  form.  The  matter  is  what  is  given 
by  the  perceptive  faculties  taken  in  the  elementary  state. 
The  form  is  the  totality  of  the  relations  set  up  between 
these  materials  in  order  to  constitute  a systematic  know- 
ledge. Can  the  form,  without  matter,  be  an  object  of 
knowledge?  Yes,  without  doubt,  provided  that  this 
knowledge  is  not  like  a thing  we  possess  so  much  as  like 
a habit  we  have  contracted, — a direction  rather  than  a 
state:  it  is,  if  we  will,  a certain  natural  bent  of  attention. 
The  schoolboy,  who  knows  that  the  master  is  going  to 
dictate  a fraction  to  him,  draws  a line  before  he  knows 


II.] 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


149 


what  numerator  and  what  denominator  are  to  come;  he 
therefore  has  present  to  his  mind  the  general  relation  be- 
tween the  two  terms  although  he  does  not  know  either  of 
them;  he  knows  the  form  without  the  matter.  So  is  it, 
prior  to  experience,  with  the  categories  into  which  our 
experience  comes  to  be  inserted.  Let  us  adopt  then  words 
sanctioned  by  usage,  and  give  the  distinction  between 
intelligence  and  instinct  this  more  precise  formula:  In- 
telligence, in  so  far  as  it  is  innate,  is  the  knowledge  of  a form ; 
instinct  implies  the  knowledge  of  a matter. 

From  this  second  point  of  view,  which  is  that  of  know- 
ledge instead  of  action,  the  force  immanent  in  life  in  general 
appears  to  us  again  as  a limited  principle,  in  which  origin- 
ally two  different  and  even  divergent  modes  of  knowing 
coexisted  and  intermingled.  The  first  gets  at  definite 
objects  immediately,  in  their  materiality  itself.  It  says, 
“This  is  what  is.’’  The  second  gets  at  no  object  in  particu- 
lar; it  is  only  a natural  power  of  relating  an  object  to  an 
object,  or  a part  to  a part,  or  an  aspect  to  an  aspect — in 
short,  of  drawing  conclusions  when  in  possession  of  the 
premisses,  of  proceeding  from  vrhat  has  been  learnt  to 
what  is  still  unknown.  It  does  not  say,^  “This  fs;”  it 
says  only  that  “i/  the  conditions  are  such,  such  will  be  the 
conditioned.”  In  short,  the  first  kind  of  knowledge,  the 
instinctive,  would  be  formulated  in  what  philosophers 
call  categorical  propositions,  while  the  second  kind,  the 
intellectual,  would  always  be  expressed  hypothetically. 
Of  these  two  faculties,  the  former  seems,  at  first,  much 
preferable  to  the  other.  And  it  would  be  so,  in  truth,  if  it 
extended  to  an  endless  number  of  objects.  But,  in  fact, 
it  applies  only  to  one  special  object,  and  indeed  only  to  a 
restricted  part  of  that  object.  Of  this,  at  least,  its  know- 
ledge is  intimate  and  full;  not  explicit,  but  implied  in  the 
accomplished  action.  The  intellectual  faculty,  on  the 


150 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


contrary,  possesses  naturally  only  an  external  and  empty 
knowledge;  but  it  has  thereby  the  advantage  of  supplying 
a frame  in  which  an  infinity  of  objects  may  find  room  in 
turn.  It  is  as  if  the  force  evolving  in  living  forms,  being  a 
limited  force,  had  had  to  choose  between  two  kinds  of 
limitation  in  the  field  of  natural  or  innate  knowledge, 
one  applying  to  the  extension  of  knowledge,  the  other  to 
its  intension.  In  the  first  case,  the  knowledge  may  be 
packed  and  full,  but  it  will  then  be  confined  to  one  specific 
object;  in  the  second,  it  is  no  longer  limited  by  its  object, 
but  that  is  because  it  contains  nothing,  being  only  a form 
without  matter.  The  tw^o  tendencies,  at  first  implied 
in  each  other,  had  to  separate  in  order  to  grow.  They 
both  went  to  seek  their  fortune  in  the  world,  and  turned 
out  to  be  instinct  and  intelligence. 

Such,  then,  are  the  two  divergent  modes  of  knowledge 
by  which  intelligence  and  instinct  must  be  defined,  from 
the  standpoint  of  knowledge  rather  than  that  of  action. 
But  knowledge  and  action  are  here  only  two  aspects  of 
one  and  the  same  faculty.  It  is  easy  to  see,  indeed,  that 
the  second  definition  is  only  a new  form  of  the  first. 

If  instinct  is,  above  all,  the  faculty  of  using  an  organized 
natural  instrument,  it  must  involve  innate  knowledge 
(potential  or  unconscious,  it  is  true),  both  of  this  instru- 
ment and  of  the  object  to  which  it  is  applied.  Instinct 
is  therefore  innate  knowledge  of  a thing.  But  intelligence 
is  the  faculty  of  constructing  unorganized — that  is  to  say 
artificial — instruments.  If,  on  its  account,  nature  gives 
up  endowing  the  living  being  with  the  instruments  that  may 
serve  him,  it  is  in  order  that  the  living  being  may  be  able 
to  vary  his  construction  according  to  circumstances.  The 
essential  function  of  intelligence  is  therefore  to  see  the  way 
out  of  a difficulty  in  any  circumstances  whatever,  to  find 
what  is  most  suitable,  what  answers  best  the  question 


II.l 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


151 


asked.  Hence  it  bears  essentially  on  the  relations  between 
a given  situation  and  the  means  of  utilizing  it.  What  is 
innate  in  intellect,  therefore,  is  the  tendency  to  establish 
relations,  and  this  tendency  implies  the  natural  know- 
ledge of  certain  very  general  relations,  a kind  of  stuff 
that  the  activity  of  each  particular  intellect  will  cut  up 
into  more  special  relations.  Where  activity  is  directed 
toward  manufacture,  therefore,  knov/ledge  necessarily 
bears  on  relations.  But  this  entirely  formal  knowledge 
of  intelligence  has  an  immense  advantage  over  the  material 
knowledge  of  instinct.  A form,  just  because  it  is  empty, 
may  be  filled  at  will  with  any  number  of  things  in  turn, 
even  with  those  that  are  of  no  use.  So  that  a formal 
knowledge  is  not  limited  to  what  is  practically  useful,  al- 
though it  is  in  view  of  practical  utility  that  it  has  made 
its  appearance  in  the  world.  An  intelligent  being  bears 
within  himself  the  means  to  transcend  his  own  nature. 

He  transcends  himself,  however,  less  than  he  wishes, 
less  also  than  he  imagines  himself  to  do.  The  purely 
formal  character  of  intelligence  deprives  it  of  the  ballast 
necessary  to  enable  it  to  settle  itself  on  the  objects  that 
are  of  the  most  powerful  interest  to  speculation.  Instinct, 
on  the  contrary,  has  the  desired  materiality,  but  it  is 
incapable  of  going  so  far  in  quest  of  its  object;  it  does  not 
speculate.  Here  we  reach  the  point  that  most  concerns 
our  present  inquiry.  The  difference  that  we  shall  now 
proceed  to  denote  between  instinct  and  intelligence  is 
what  the  whole  of  this  analysis  was  meant  to  bring  out. 
We  formulate  it  thus:  There  are  things  that  intelligence 
alone  is  able  to  seek,  but  which,  by  itself,  it  will  never  find. 
These  things  instinct  alone  could  find;  but  it  will  never  seek 
them. 

It  is  necessary  here  to  consider  some  preliminary  de- 
tails that  concern  the  mechanism  of  intelligence.  We 


152 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CIIAP. 


have  said  that  the  function  of  intelligence  is  to  establish 
relations.  Let  us  determine  more  precisely  the  nature 
of  these  relations.  On  this  point  we  are  bound  to  be  either 
vague  or  arbitrary  so  long  as  we  see  in  the  intellect  a faculty 
intended  for  pure  speculation.  We  are  then  reduced  to 
taking  the  general  frames  of  the  understanding  for  some- 
thing absolute,  irreducible  and  inexplicable.  The  under- 
standing must  have  fallen  from  heaven  with  its  form, 
as  each  of  us  is  born  with  his  face.  This  form  may  be 
defined,  of  course,  but  that  is  all;  there  is  no  asking  why 
it  is  what  it  is  rather  than  anything  else.  Thus,  it  will  be 
said  that  the  function  of  the  intellect  is  essentially  uni- 
fication, that  the  common  object  of  all  its  operations  is  to 
introduce  a certain  unity  into  the  diversity  of  phenomena, 
and  so  forth.  But,  in  the  first  place,  “unification”  is  a 
vague  term,  less  clear  than  “relation”  or  even  “thought,” 
and  says  nothing  more.  And,  moreover,  it  might  be  asked 
if  the  function  of  intelligence  is  not  to  divide  even  more 
than  to  unite.  Finally,  if  the  intellect  proceeds  as  it  does 
because  it  wishes  to  unite,  and  if  it  seeks  unification  simply 
because  it  has  need  of  unifying,  the  whole  of  our  knowledge 
becomes  relative  to  certain  requirements  of  the  mind 
that  probably  might  have  been  entirely  different  from 
what  they  are:  for  an  intellect  differently  shaped,  know- 
ledge would  have  been  different.  Intellect  being  no  longer 
dependent  on  anything,  everything  becomes  dependent 
on  it;  and  so,  having  placed  the  understanding  too  high, 
we  end  by  putting  too  low  the  knowledge  it  gives  us. 
Knowledge  becomes  relative,  as  soon  as  the  intellect  is 
made  a kind  of  absolute. — We  regard  the  human  intellect, 
on  the  contrary,  as  relative  to  the  needs  of  action.  Postu- 
late action,  and  the  very  form  of  the  intellect  can  be  deduced 
from  it.  This  form  is  therefore  neither  irreducible  nor 
inexplicable.  And,  precisely  because  it  is  not  independent, 


II.1 


INTELLIGENCE  AND  INSTINCT 


153 


knowledge  cannot  be  said  to  depend  on  it:  knowledge 
ceases  to  be  a product  of  the  intellect  and  becomes,  in  a 
certain  sense,  part  and  parcel  of  reality. 

Philosophers  will  reply  that  action  takes  place  in  an 
ordered  world,  that  this  order  is  itself  thought,  and  that 
we  beg  the  question  when  we  explain  the  intellect  by  action, 
which  presupposes  it.  They  would  be  right  if  our  point 
of  view  in  the  present  chapter  was  to  be  our  final  one. 
We  should  then  be  dupes  of  an  illusion  like  that  of  Spencer, 
who  believed  that  the  intellect  is  sufficiently  explained  as 
the  impression  left  on  us  by  the  general  characters  of  matter : 
as  if  the  order  inherent  in  matter  were  not  intelligence 
itself!  But  we  reserve  for  the  next  chapter  the  question 
up  to  what  point  and  with  what  method  philosophy  can 
attempt  a real  genesis  of  the  intellect  at  the  same  time 
as  of  matter.  For  the  moment,  the  problem  that  engages 
our  attention  is  of  a psychological  order.  We  are  asking 
what  is  the  portion  of  the  material  world  to  which  our  in- 
tellect is  specially  adapted.  To  reply  to  this  question, 
there  is  no  need  to  choose  a system  of  philosophy:  it  is 
enough  to  take  up  the  point  of  view  of  common  sense. 

Let  us  start,  then,  from  action,  and  lay  down  that 
the  intellect  aims,  first  of  all,  at  constructing.  This 
fabrication  is  exercised  exclusively  on  inert  matter,  in 
this  sense,  that  even  if  it  makes  use  of  organized  material, 
it  treats  it  as  inert,  without  troubling  about  the  life  which 
animated  it.  And  of  inert  matter  itself,  fabrication  deals 
only  with  the  solid;  the  rest  escapes  by  its  very  fluidity. 
If,  therefore,  the  tendency  of  the  intellect  is  to  fabricate, 
we  may  expect  to  find  that  whatever  is  fluid  in  the  real 
will  escape  it  in  part,  and  whatever  is  life  in  the  living  will 
escape  it  altogether.  Our  intelligence,  as  it  leaves  the  hands 
of  nature,  has  for  its  chief  object  the  unorganized  solid. 

When  we  pass  in  review  the  intellectual  functions, 


154 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


we  see  that  the  intellect  is  never  quite  at  its  ease,  never 
entirely  at  home,  except  when  it  is  working  upon  inert 
matter,  more  particularly  upon  solids.  What  is  the  most 
general  property  of  the  material  world?  It  is  extended: 
it  presents  to  us  objects  external  to  other  objects,  and,  in 
these  objects,  parts  external  to  parts.  No  doubt,  it  is 
useful  to  us,  in  view  of  our  ulterior  manipulation,  to  regard 
each  object  as  divisible  into  parts  arbitrarily  cut  up,  each 
part  being  again  divisible  as  we  like,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 
But  it  is  above  all  necessary,  for  our  present  manipulation, 
to  regard  the  real  object  in  hand,  or  the  real  elements  into 
which  we  have  resolved  it,  as  ^provisionally  final,  and  to 
treat  them  as  so  many  units.  To  this  possibility  of  de- 
composing matter  as  much  as  we  please,  and  in  any  way 
we  please,  we  allude  when  we  speak  of  the  continuity  of 
material  extension;  but  this  continuity,  as  we  see  it,  is 
nothing  else  but  our  ability,  an  ability  that  matter  allows 
to  us  to  choose  the  mode  of  discontinuity  we  shall  find  in 
it.  It  is  always,  in  fact,  the  mode  of  discontinuity  once 
chosen  that  appears  to  us  as  the  actually  real  one  and 
that  which  fixes  our  attention,  just  because  it  rules  our 
action.  Thus  discontinuity  is  thought  for  itself;  it  is 
thinkable  in  itself;  we  form  an  idea  of  it  by  a positive 
act  of  our  mind;  while  the  intellectual  representation  of 
continuity  is  negative,  being,  at  bottom,  only  the  refusal 
of  our  mind,  before  any  actually  given  system  of  decompo- 
sition, to  regard  it  as  the  only  possible  one.  Of  the 
discontinuous  alone  does  the  intellect  form  a clear  idea. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  objects  we  act  on  are  certainly 
mobile  objects,  but  the  important  thing  for  us  to  know  is 
whither  the  mobile  object  is  going  and  where  it  is  at  any 
moment  of  its  passage.  In  other  words,  our  interest  is 
directed,  before  all,  to  its  actual  or  future  positions,  and 
not  to  the  progress  by  which  it  passes  from  one  position 


II.]  THE  FUNCTION  OF  TFIE  INTELLECT  155 


to  another,  progress  which  is  the  movement  itself.  In 
our  actions,  which  are  systematized  movements,  what  we 
fix  our  mind  on  is  the  end  or  meaning  of  the  movement, 
its  design  as  a whole — in  a word,  the  immobile  plan  of  its 
execution.  That  which  really  moves  in  action  interests 
us  only  so  far  as  the  whole  can  be  advanced,  retarded,  or 
stopped  by  any  incident  that  may  happen  on  the  way. 
From  mobility  itself  our  intellect  turns  aside,  because  it 
has  nothing  to  gain  in  dealing  with  it.  If  the  intellect  were 
meant  for  pure  theorizing,  it  would  take  its  place  within 
movement,  for  movement  is  reality  itself,  and  immobility 
is  always  only  apparent  or  relative.  But  the  intellect 
is  meant  for  something  altogether  different.  Unless  it 
does  violence  to  itself,  it  takes  the  opposite  course;  it 
always  starts  from  immobility,  as  if  this  were  the  ultimate 
reality:  when  it  tries  to  form  an  idea  of  movement,  it 
does  so  by  constructing  movement  out  of  immobilities 
put  together.  This  operation,  whose  illegitimacy  and  danger 
in  the  field  of  speculation  we  shall  show  later  on  (it  leads 
to  dead-locks,  and  creates  artificially  insoluble  philosophical 
problems),  is  easily  justified  when  we  refer  it  to  its  proper 
goal.  Intelligence,  in  its  natural  state,  aims  at  a practically 
useful  end.  When  it  substitutes  for  movement  immobilities 
put  together,  it  does  not  pretend  to  reconstitute  the  move- 
ment such  as  it  actually  is;  it  merely  replaces  it  with  a 
practical  equivalent.  It  is  the  philosophers  who  are  mis- 
taken when  they  import  into  the  domain  of  speculation 
a method  of  thinking  which  is  made  for  action.  But  of 
this  more  anon.  Suffice  it  now  to  say  that  to  the  stable 
and  unchangeable  our  intellect  is  attached  by  virtue  of 
its  natural  disposition.  Of  immobility  alone  does  the  in- 
tellect form  a clear  idea. 

Now,  fabricating  consists  in  carving  out  the  form  of 
an  object  in  matter.  ^Wiat  is  the  most  important  is 


156 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  form  to  be  obtained.  As  to  the  matter,  we  choose 
that  which  is  most  convenient;  but,  in  order  to  choose 
it,  that  is  to  say,  in  order  to  go  and  seek  it  among  many 
others,  w^e  must  have  tried,  in  imagination  at  least,  to 
endow  every  kind  of  matter  with  the  form  of  the  object 
conceived.  In  other  words,  an  intelligence  which  aims 
at  fabricating  is  an  intelligence  which  never  stops  at  the 
actual  form  of  things  nor  regards  it  as  final,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  looks  upon  all  matter  as  if  it  were  carvable  at 
will.'^  Plato  compares  the  good  dialectician  to  the  skilful 
cook  who  carves  the  animal  without  breaking  its  bones, 
by  following  the  articulations  marked  out  by  nature.* 
An  intelligence  which  always  proceeded  thus  would  really 
be  an  intelligence  turned  toward  speculation.  But 
action,  and  in  particular  fabrication,  requires  the  opposite 
mental  tendency:  it  makes  us  consider  every  actual 
form  of  things,  even  the  form  of  natural  things,  as  artificial 
and  provisional;  it  makes  our  thought  efface  from  the  object 
perceived,  even  though  organized  and  living,  the  lines 
that  outwardly  mark  its  inward  structure;  in  short,  it 
makes  us  regard  its  matter  as  indifferent  to  its  form.  The 
whole  of  matter  is  made  to  appear  to  our  thought  as  an 
immense  piece  of  cloth  in  which  we  can  cut  out  wLat  w^e 
will  and  sew  it  together  again  as  we  please.  Let  us  note, 
in  passing,  that  it  is  this  power  that  we  affirm  when  w^e  say 
that  there  is  a space,  that  is  to  say,  a homogeneous  and 
empty  medium,  infinite  and  infinitely  divisible,  lending 
itself  indifferently  to  any  mode  of  decomposition  whatso- 
ever. A medium  of  this  kind  is  never  perceived ; it  is  only 
conceived.  What  is  perceived  is  extension  colored,  re- 
sistant, divided  according  to  the  lines  wRich  mark  out  the 
boundaries  of  real  bodies  or  of  their  real  elements.  But 
when  we  think  of  our  power  over  this  matter,  that  is  to  say, 
* Plato,  Phaearus,  265  e. 


II.]  THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  INTELLECT  157 


of  our  faculty  of  decomposing  and  recomposing  it  as  we 
please,  we  project  the  whole  of  these  possible  decompositions 
and  recompositions  behind  real  extension  in  the  form  of  a 
homogeneous  space,  empty  and  indifferent,  which  is 
supposed  to  underlie  it.  This  space  is  therefore,  pre- 
eminently, the  plan  of  our  possible  action  on  things,  al- 
though, indeed,  things  have  a natural  tendency,  as  we 
shall  explain  further  on,  to  enter  into  a frame  of  this 
kind.  It  is  a view  taken  by  mind.  The  animal  has 
probably  no  idea  of  it,  even  when,  like  us,  it  perceives  ex- 
tended things.  It  is  an  idea  that  symbolizes  the  tendency 
of  the  human  intellect  to  fabrication.  But  this  point 
must  not  detain  us  now.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  intellect 
is  characterized  by  the  unlimited  power  of  decomposing  ac- 
cording to  any  law  and  of  recomposing  into  any  system. 

We  have  now  enumerated  a few  of  the  essential  features 
of  human  intelligence.  But  we  have  hitherto  considered 
the  individual  in  isolation,  without  taking  account  of  social 
life.  In  reality,  man  is  a being  who  lives  in  society.  If 
it  be  true  that  the  human  intellect  aims  at  fabrication,  w^e 
must  add  that,  for  that  as  well  as  for  other  purposes,  it  is 
associated  with  other  intellects.  Now,  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  a society  whose  members  do  not  communicate  by 
signs.  Insect  societies  probably  have  a language,  and  this 
language  must  be  adapted,  like  that  of  man,  to  the  neces- 
sities of  life  in  common.  By  language  community  of  action 
is  made  possible.  But  the  requirements  of  joint  action 
are  not  at  all  the  same  in  a colony  of  ants  and  in  a human 
society.  In  insect  societies  there  is  generally  polymor- 
phism, the  subdivision  of  labor  is  natural,  and  each  indi- 
vidual is  riveted  by  its  structure  to  the  function  it  performs. 
In  any  case,  these  societies  are  based  on  instinct,  and  con- 
sequently on  certain  actions  or  fabrications  that  are  more 
or  less  dependent  on  the  form  of  the  organs.  So  if  the  ants. 


158 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


for  instance,  have  a language,  the  signs  which  compose 
it  must  be  very  limited  in  number,  and  each  of  them,  once 
the  species  is  formed,  must  remain  invariably  attached  to  a 
certain  object  or  a certain  operation:  the  sign  is  adherent 
to  the  thing  signified.  In  human  society,  on  the  contrary, 
fabrication  and  action  are  of  variable  form,  and,  moreover, 
each  individual  must  learn  his  part,  because  he  is  not 
preordained  to  it  by  hfs  structure.  So  a language  is  re- 
quired which  makes  it  possible  to  be  always  passing  from 
what'^  is  known  to  what  is  yet  to  be  known.  There  must 
be  a language  whose  signs — which  cannot  be  infinite  in 
number — are  extensible  to  an  infinity  of  things.  This 
tendency  of  the  sign  to  transfer  itself  from  one  object  to 
another  is  characteristic  of  human  language.  It  is  ob- 
servable in  the  little  child  as  soon  as  he  begins  to  speak. 
Immediately  and  naturally  he  extends  the  meaning  of 
the  words  he  learns,  availing  himself  of  the  most  accidental 
connection  or  the  most  distant  analogy  to  detach  and 
transfer  elsewhere  the  sign  that  had  been  associated  in 
his  hearing  with  a particular  object.  ‘^Anything  can 
designate  anything;”  such  is  the  latent  principle  of 
infantine  language.  This  tendency  has  been  wrongly 
confused  with  the  faculty  of  generalizing.  The  animals 
themselves  generalize;  and,  moreover,  a sign — even 
an  instinctive  sign — always  to  some  degree  represents 
a genus.  But  what  characterizes  the  signs  of  human 
language  is  not  so  much  their  generality  as  their  mobility. 
The  instinctive  sign  is  adherent,  the  intelligent  sign  is 
mobile. 

Now,  this  mobility  of  words,  that  makes  them  able 
to  pass  from  one  thing  to  another,  has  enabled  them  to 
be  extended  from  things  to  ideas.  Certainly,  language 
would  not  have  given  the  faculty  of  reflecting  to  an  in- 
telligence entirely  externalized  and  incapable  of  turn- 


ii.i  THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  INTELLECT  159 


ing  homeward.  An  intelligence  which  reflects  is  one 
that  originally  had  a surplus  of  energy  to  spend,  over 
and  above  practically  useful  efforts.  It  is  a conscious- 
ness that  has  virtually  reconquered  itself.  But  still  the 
virtual  has  to  become  actual.  Without  language,  in- 
telligence would  probably  have  remained  riveted  to  the 
material  objects  which  it  was  interested  in  considering. 
It  would  have  lived  in  a state  of  somnambulism,  outside 
itself,  hypnotized  on  its  own  work.  Language  has  greatly 
contributed  to  its  liberation.  The  word,  made  to  pass 
from  one  thing  to  another,  is,  in  fact,  by  nature  transferable 
and  free.  It  can  therefore  be  extended,  not  only  from  one 
perceived  thing  to  another,  but  even  from  a perceived  thing 
to  a recollection  of  that  thing,  from  the  precise  recollection 
to  a more  fleeting  image,  and  finally  from  an  image  fleet- 
ing, though  still  pictured,  to  the  picturing  of  the  act  by 
which  the  image  is  pictured,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  idea. 
Thus  is  revealed  to  the  intelligence,  hitherto  always  turned 
outwards,  a whole  internal  world — the  spectacle  of  its 
own  w’or kings.  It  required  only  this  opportunity,  at 
length  offered  by  language.  It  profits  by  the  fact  that  the 
word  is  an  external  thing,  which  the  intelligence  can  catch 
hold  of  and  cling  to,  and  at  the  same  time  an  immaterial 
thing,  by  means  of  which  the  intelligence  can  penetrate 
even  to  the  inwardness  of  its  own  work.  Its  first  business 
was  indeed  to  make  instruments,  but  this  fabrication  is 
possible  only  by  the  employment  of  certain  means  which 
are  not  cut  to  the  exact  measure  of  their  object,  but  go 
beyond  it  and  thus  allow  intelligence  a supplementary — 
that  is  to  say  disinterested  work.  From  the  moment  that 
the  intellect,  reflecting  upon  its  own  doings,  perceives  itself 
as  a creator  of  ideas,  as  a faculty  of  representation  in 
general,  there  is  no  object  of  which  it  may  not  wish  to  have 
the  idea,  even  though  that  object  be  without  direct  re- 


160 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


lation  to  practical  action.  That  is  why  we  said  there  are 
things  that  intellect  alone  can  seek.  Intellect  alone, 
indeed,  troubles  itself  about  theory;  and  its  theory  would 
fain  embrace  everything — not  only  inanimate  matter, 
over  which  it  has  a natural  hold,  but  even  life  and 
thought. 

By  what  means,  what  instruments,  in  short  by  what 
method  it  will  approach  these  problems,  we  can  easily 
guess.  Originally,  it  was  fashioned  to  the  form  of  matter. 
Language  itself,  which  has  enabled  it  to  extend  its  field 
of  operations,  is  made  to  designate  things,  and  nought  but 
things:  it  is  only  because  the  word  is  mobile,  because  it 
flies  from  one  thing  to  another,  that  the  intellect  was  sure 
to  take  it,  sooner  or  later,  on  the  wing,  while  it  was  not 
settled  on  anything,  and  apply  it  to  an  object  w’hich  is 
not  a thing  and  which,  concealed  till  then,  awaited  the 
coming  of  the  word  to  pass  from  darkness  to  light.  But 
the  word,  by  covering  up  this  object,  again  converts  it 
into  a thing.  So  intelligence,  even  when  it  no  longer 
operates  upon  its  own  object,  follows  habits  it  has  con- 
tracted in  that  operation:  it  applies  forms  that  are  indeed 
those  of  unorganized  matter.  It  is  made  for  this  kind  of 
work.  With  this  kind  of  work  alone  is  it  fully  satisfied. 
And  that  is  what  intelhgence  expresses  by  saying  that  thus 
only  it  arrives  at  distinctness  and  clearness. 

It  must,  therefore,  in  order  to  think  itself  clearly  and 
distinctly,  perceive  itself  under  the  form  of  discontinuity. 
Concepts,  in  fact,  are  outside  each  other,  like  objects  in 
space;  and  they  have  the  same  stability  as  such  objects, 
on  which  they  have  been  modeled.  Taken  together, 
they  constitute  an  “intelligible  world,”  that  resembles 
the  world  of  solids  in  its  essential  characters,  but  whose 
elements  are  lighter,  more  diaphanous,  easier  for  the 
intellect  to  deal  with  than  the  image  of  concrete  things: 


ii.j  THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  INTELLECT  161 


they  are  not,  indeed,  the  perception  itself  of  things,  but 
the  representation  of  the  act  by  which  the  intellect  is 
fixed  on  them.  They  are,  therefore,  not  images,  but 
symbols.  Our  logic  is  the  complete  set  of  rules  that  must 
be  followed  in  using  symbols.  As  these  symbols  are  de- 
rived from  the  consideration  of  solids,  as  the  rules  for  com- 
bining these  symbols  hardly  do  more  than  express  the  most 
general  relations  among  solids,  our  logic  triumphs  in  that 
science  which  takes  the  solidity  of  bodies  for  its  object, 
that  is,  in  geometry.  Logic  and  geometry  engender  each 
other,  as  we  shall  see  a little  further  on.  It  is  from  the 
extension  of  a certain  natural  geometry,  suggested  by  the 
most  general  and  immediately  perceived  properties  of 
solids,  that  natural  logic  has  arisen;  then  from  this  natural 
logic,  in  its  turn,  has  sprung  scientific  geometry,  which 
extends  further  and  further  the  knowdedge  of  the  external 
properties  of  solids.*  Geometry  and  logic  are  strictly 
applicable  to  matter;  in  it  they  are  at  home,  and  in  it 
they  can  proceed  quite  alone.  But,  outside  this  domain, 
pure  reasoning  needs  to  be  supervised  by  common  sense, 
which  is  an  altogether  different  thing. 

Thus,  all  the  elementary  forces  of  the  intellect  tend 
to  transform  matter  into  an  instrument  of  action,  that 
is,  in  the  etymological  sense  of  the  word,  into  an  organ. 
Life,  not  content  with  producing  organisms,  would  fain 
give  themx  as  an  appendage  inorganic  matter  itself,  con- 
verted into  an  immense  organ  by  the  industry  of  the  living 
being.  Such  is  the  initial  task  it  assigns  to  intelligence. 
That  is  why  the  intellect  always  behaves  as  if  it  were 
fascinated  by  the  contemplation  of  inert  matter.  It  is 
life  looking  outward,  putting  itself  outside  itself,  adopting 
the  ways  of  unorganized  nature  in  principle,  in  order  to 
direct  them  in  fact.  Hence  its  bewilderment  when  it 

* We  shall  return  to  these  points  in  the  next  chapter. 


162 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


turns  to  the  living  and  is  confronted  with  organization. 
It  does  what  it  can,  it  resolves  the  organized  into  the  un- 
organized, for  it  cannot,  without  reversing  its  natural 
direction  and  twisting  about  on  itself,  think  true  continuity, 
real  mobility,  reciprocal  penetration — in  a word,  that 
creative  evolution  which  is  life. 

Consider  continuity.  The  aspect  of  life  that  is  accessible 
to  our  intellect — as  indeed  to  our  senses,  of  which  our 
intellect  is  the  extension — is  that  which  offers  a hold  to 
our  action.  Now,  to  modify  an  object,  we  have  to  perceive 
it  as  divisible  and  discontinuous.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  positive  science,  an  incomparable  progress  was  realized 
when  the  organized  tissues  were  resolved  into  cells.  The 
study  of  the  cell,  in  its  turn,  has  shown  it  to  be  an  organism 
whose  complexity  seems  to  grow,  the  more  thoroughly 
it  is  examined.  The  more  science  advances,  the  more 
it  sees  the  number  grow  of  heterogeneous  elements  which 
are  placed  together,  outside  each  other,  to  make  up  a 
living  being.  Does  science  thus  get  any  nearer  to  life? 
Does  it  not,  on  the  contrary,  find  that  what  is  really  life 
in  the  living  seems  to  recede  with  every  step  by  w^hich 
it  pushes  further  the  detail  of  the  parts  combined?  There 
is  indeed  already  among  scientists  a tendency  to  regard 
the  substance  of  the  organism  as  continuous,  and  the  cell 
as  an  artificial  entity.^  But,  supposing  this  view  w^re 
finally  to  prevail,  it  could  only  lead,  on  deeper  study,  to 
some  other  mode  of  analyzing  of  the  living  being,  and  so  to 
a new  discontinuity — although  less  removed,  perhaps, 
from  the  real  continuity  of  life.  The  truth  is  that  this 
continuity  cannot  be  thought  by  the  intellect  while  it 
follow^s  its  natural  movement.  It  implies  at  once  the 
multiplicity  of  elements  and  the  interpenetration  of 
all  by  all,  two  conditions  that  can  hardly  be  reconciled 
» We  shall  return  to  this  point  in  chapter  iii.,  p.  259. 


ii.l  THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  INTELLECT  163 


in  the  field  in  which  our  industry,  and  consequently  our 
intellect,  is  engaged. 

Just  as  we  separate  in  space,  we  fix  in  time.  The  in- 
tellect is  not  made  to  think  evolution^  in  the  proper  sense 
of  the  word — that  is  to  say,  the  continuity  of  a change 
that  is  pure  mobility.  We  shall  not  dwell  here  on  this 
point,  which  we  propose  to  study  in  a special  chapter. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  intellect  represents  becoming  as 
a series  of  states,  each  of  which  is  homogeneous  with  itself 
and  consequently  does  not  change.  Is  our  attention 
called  to  the  internal  change  of  one  of  these  states?  At 
once  we  decompose  it  into  another  series  of  states  which, 
reunited,  will  be  supposed  to  make  up  this  internal  modi- 
fication. Each  of  these  new  states  must  be  invariable, 
or  else  their  internal  change,  if  we  are  forced  to  notice 
it,  must  be  resolved  again  into  a fresh  series  of  invariable 
states,  and  so  on  to  infinity.  Here  again,  thinking  con- 
sists in  reconstituting,  and,  naturally,  it  is  with  given 
elements,  and  consequently  with  stable  elements,  that  we 
reconstitute.  So  that,  though  we  may  do  our  best  to 
imitate  the  mobility  of  becoming  by  an  addition  that  is 
ever  going  on,  becoming  itself  slips  through  our  fingers  just 
when  we  think  we  are  holding  it  tight. 

Precisely  because  it  is  always  trying  to  reconstitute, 
and  to  reconstitute  with  what  is  given,  the  intellect  lets 
what  is  new  in  each  moment  of  a history  escape.  It 
does  not  admit  the  unforeseeable.  It  rejects  aU  creation. 

' That  definite  antecedents  bring  forth  a definite  consequent, 
calculable  as  a function  of  them,  is  what  satisfies  our 
intellect.  That  a definite  end  calls  forth  definite  means 
to  attain  it,  is  what  we  also  understand.  In  both  cases 
we  have  to  do  with  the  known  which  is  combined  with  the 
known,  in  short,  with  the  old  which  is  repeated.  Our 
intellect  is  there  at  its  ease;  and,  whatever  be  the  object, 


164 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


it  will  abstract;  separate,  eliminate,  so  as  to  substitute  for 
the  object  itself,  if  necessary,  an  approximate  equivalent 
in  which  things  will  happen  in  this  way.  But  that  each 
instant  is  a fresh  endowment,  that  the  new  is  ever  upspring- 
ing,  that  the  form  just  come  into  existence  (although, 
when  once  produced,  it  may  be  regarded  as  an  effect  de- 
termined by  its  causes)  could  never  have  been  foreseen — 
because  the  causes  here,  unique  in  their  kind,  are  part  of 
the  effect,  have  come  into  existence  with  it,  and  are  de- 
tefmined  by  it  as  much  as  they  determine  it — all  this  we 
can  feel  within  ourselves  and  also  divine,  by  sympathy, 
outside  oureelves,  but  we  cannot  think  it,  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  word,  nor  express  it  in  terms  of  pure  understanding. 
No  wonder  at  that:  w^e  must  remember  what  our  intellect 
is  meant  for.  The  causality  it  seeks  and  finds  everywhere 
expresses  the  very  mechanism  of  our  industry,  in  which 
we  go  on  recomposing  the  same  whole  with  the  same  parts, 
repeating  the  same  movements  to  obtain  the  same  result. 
The  finality  it  understands  best  is  the  finality  of  our  in- 
dustry, in  which  we  work  on  a model  given  in  advance,  that 
is  to  say,  old  or  composed  of  elements  already  known.  As 
to  invention  properly  so  called,  which  is,  however,  the  point 
of  departure  of  industry  itself,  our  intellect  does  not 
succeed  in  grasping  it  in  its  upspringing,  that  is  to  say, 
in  its  indivisibility,  nor  in  its  fervor,  that  is  to  say,  in 
its  creativeness.  Explaining  it  always  consists  in  re- 
solving it,  it  the  unforeseeable  and  new,  into  elements 
old  or  known,  arranged  in  a different  6rder.  The  intellect 
can  no  more  admit  complete  novelty  than  real  becoming; 
that  is  to  say,  here  again  it  lets  an  essential  aspect  of  life 
escape,  as  if  it  were  not  intended  to  think  such  an  object. 

All  our  analyses  bring  us  to  this  conclusion.  But  it 
is  hardly  necessary  to  go  into  such  long  details  concerning 
the  mechanism  of  intellectual  working;  it  is  enough  to 


ii.l  THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  INTELLECT  165 


consider  the  results.  We  see  that  the  intellect,  so  skilful 
in  dealing  with  the  inert,  is  awkward  the  moment  it  touches 
the  living.  Whether  it  wants  to  treat  the  life  of  the  body 
or  the  life  of  the  mind,  it  proceeds  with  the  rigor,  the  stiff- 
ness and  the  brutality  of  an  instrument  not  designed  for 
such  use.  The  history  of  hygiene  or  of  pedagogy  teaches 
us  much  in  this  matter.  When  we  think  of  the  cardinal, 
urgent  and  constant  need  we  have  to  preserve  our  bodies 
and  to  raise  our  souls,  of  the  special  facilities  given  to  each 
of  us,  in  this  held,  to  experiment  continually  on  ourselves 
and  on  others,  of  the  palpable  injury  by  which  the  wrong- 
ness of  a medical  or  pedagogical  practise  is  both  made 
manifest  and  punished  at  once,  we  are  amazed  at  the  stu- 
pidity and  especially  at  the  persistence  • of  errors.  We 
may  easily  hnd  their  origin  in  the  natural  obstinacy  with 
which  we  treat  the  living  like  the  lifeless  and  think  all 
reality,  however  fluid,  under  the  form  of  the  sharply  dehned 
solid.  We  are  at  ease  only  in  the  discontinuous,  in  the 
immobile,  in  the  dead.  The  intellect  is  characterized  by  a 
natural  inability  to  comprehend  life. 

Instinct,  on  the  contrary,  is  molded  on  the  very  form 
of  life.  While  intelligence  treats  everything  mechanically, 
instinct  proceeds,  so  to  speak,  organically.  If  the  con- 
sciousness that  slumbers  in  it  should  awake,  if  it  were 
wound  up  into  knowledge  instead  of  being  wound  off  into 
action,  if  we  could  ask  and  it  could  reply,  it  would  give  up 
to  us  the  most  intimate  secrets  of  life.  For  it  only  carries 
out  further  the  work  by  which  life  organizes  matter — 
so  that  we  cannot  say,  as  has  often  been  shown,  where 
organization  ends  and  where  instinct  begins.  When  the 
little  chick  is  breaking  its  shell  with  a peck  of  its  beak, 
it  is  acting  by  instinct,  and  yet  it  does  but  carry  on  the 
movement  which  has  borne  it  through  embryonic  life. 


166 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


Inversely,  in  the  course  of  embryonic  life  itself  (especially 
when  the  embr}"0  lives  freely  in  the  form  of  a larva),  many 
of  the  acts  accomplished  must  be  referred  to  instinct. 
The  most  essential  of  the  primary  instincts  are  really, 
therefore,  vital  processes.  The  potential  consciousness 
that  accompanies  them  is  generally  actualized  only  at  the 
outset  of  the  act,  and  leaves  the  rest  of  the  process  to  go  on 
by  itself.  It  would  only  have  to  expand  more  widely, 
and  then  dive  into  its  owm  depth  completely,  to  be  one 
with' the  generative  force  of  life. 

When  we  see  in  a living  body  thousands  of  cells  work- 
ing together  to  a common  end,  dividing  the  task  between 
them,  living  each  for  itself  at  the  same  time  as  for  the  others, 
preserving  itself,  feeding  itself,  reproducing  itself,  respond- 
ing to  the  menace  of  danger  by  appropriate  defensive 
reactions,  how  can  we  help  thinking  of  so  many  instincts? 
And  yet  these  are  the  natural  functions  of  the  cell,  the 
constitutive  elements  of  its  vitality.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  we  see  the  bees  of  a hive  forming  a system  so  strictly 
organized  that  no  individual  can  live  apart  from  the  others 
beyond  a certain  time,  even  though  furnished  with  food 
and  shelter,  how  can  we  help  recognizing  that  the  hive 
is  really,  and  not  metaphorically,  a single  organism,  of 
which  each  bee  is  a cell  united  to  the  others  by  invisible 
bonds?  The  instinct  that  animates  the  bee  is  indistinguish- 
able, then,  from  the  force  that  animates  the  cell,  or  is  only 
a prolongation  of  that  force.  In  extreme  cases  like  this, 
instinct  coincides  with  the  work  of  organization. 

Of  course  there  are  degrees  of  perfection  in  the  same 
instinct.  Betw^een  the  humble-bee,  and  the  honey-bee, 
for  instance,  the  ^distance  is  great;  and  we  pass  from 
one  to  the  other  through  a great  number  of  intermediaries, 
which  correspond  to  so  many  complications  of  the  social 
life.  But  the  same  diversity  is  found  in  the  functioning 


II.] 


THE  NATURE  OF  INSTINCT 


167 


of  histological  elements  belonging  to  different  tissues  more 
or  less  akin.  In  both  cases  there  are  manifold  variations 
on  one  and  the  same  theme.  The  constancy  of  the  theme 
is  manifest;  however,  and  the  variations  only  fit  it  to  the 
diversity  of  the  circumstances. 

Now,  in  both  cases,  in  the  instinct  of  the  animal  and 
in  the  vital  properties  of  the  cell,  the  same  knowledge 
and  the  same  ignorance  are  shown.  All  goes  on  as  if 
the  cell  knew,  of  the  other  cells,  what  concerns  itself; 
as  if  the  animal  knew,  of  the  other  animals,  what  it  can 
utilize — all  else  remaining  in  shade.  It  seems  as  if  life, 
as  soon  as  it  has  become  bound  up  in  a species,  is  cut  off 
from  the  rest  of  its  own  work,  save  at  one  or  two  points 
that  are  of  vital  concern  to  the  species  just  arisen.  Is  it 
not  plain  that  life  goes  to  work  here  exactly  like  conscious- 
ness, exactly  like  memory?  We  trail  behind  us,  unawares, 
the  whole  of  our  past;  but  our  memory  pours  into  the 
present  only  the  odd  recollection  or  two  that  in  some 
way  complete  our  present  situation.  Thus  the  instinctive 
knowledge  which  one  species  possesses  of  another  on  a 
certain  particular  point  has  its  root  in  the  very  unity  of 
life,  which  is,  to  use  the  expression  of  an  ancient  philoso- 
pher, a ‘‘whole  sympathetic  to  itself.’’  It  is  impossible  to 
consider  some  of  the  special  instincts  of  the  animal  and  of 
the  plant,  evidently  arisen  in  extraordinary  circumstances, 
without  relating  them  to  those  recollections,  seemingly 
forgotten,  which  spring  up  suddenly  under  the  pressure 
of  an  urgent  need. 

No  doubt  many  secondary  instincts,  and  also  many 
varieties  of  primary  instinct,  admit  of  a scientific  ex- 
planation. Yet  it  is  doubtful  whether  science,  with 
its  present  methods  of  explanation,  wiW  ever  succeed  in 
analyzing  instinct  completely.  The  reason  is  that  in- 
stinct and  intelligence  are  two  divergent  developments 


168 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


of  one  and  the  same  principle,  which  in  the  one  case  re- 
mains within  itself,  in  the  other  steps  out  of  itself  and 
becomes  absorbed  in  the  utilization  of  inert  matter.  This 
gradual  divergence  testifies  to  a radical  incompatibility, 
and  points  to  the  fact  that  it  is  impossible  for  intelligence 
to  re-absorb  instinct.  That  which  is  instinctive  in  instinct 
cannot  be  expressed  in  terms  of  intelligence,  nor,  conse- 
quently, can  it  be  analyzed. 

A man  born  blind,  who  had  lived  among  others  born 
blind,  could  not  be  made  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
perceiving  a distant  object  without  first  perceiving  all  the 
objects  in  between.  Yet  vision  performs  this  miracle. 
In  a certain  sense  the  blind  man  is  right,  since  vision,  hav- 
ing its  origin  in  the  stimulation  of  the  retina,  by  the  vi- 
brations of  the  light,  is  nothing  else,  in  fact,  but  a retinal 
touch.  Such  is  indeed  the  scientific  explanation,  for  the 
function  of  science  is  just  to  express  all  perceptions  in 
terms  of  touch.  But  we  have  shown  elsewhere  that  the 
philosophical  explanation  of  perception  (if  it  may  still  be 
called  an  explanation)  must  be  of  another  kind.^  Now 
instinct  also  is  a knowledge  at  a distance.  It  has  the 
same  relation  to  intelligence  that  vision  has  to  touch. 
Science  cannot  do  otherwise  than  express  it  in  terms  of 
intelligence;  but  in  so  doing  it  constructs  an  imitation 
of  instinct  rather  than  penetrates  within  it. 

Any  one  can  convince  himself  of  this  by  studying  the 
ingenious  theories  of  evolutionist  biology.  They  may  be 
reduced  to  two  types,  which  are  often  intermingled.  One 
type,  following  the  principles  of  neo-Darwinism,  regards 
instinct  as  a sum  of  accidental  differences  preserved  by 
selection:  such  and  such  a useful  behavior,  naturally 
adopted  by  the  iiidi\fidual  in  \firtue  of  an  accidental  pre- 
disposition of  the  germ,  has  been  transmitted  from  germ 

1 Matiere  et  memoire,  chap.  i. 


ii.l  THE  NATURE  OF  INSTINCT  169 

to  germ,  waiting  for  chance  to  add  fresh  improvements 
to  it  by  the  same  method.  The  other  type  regards  instinct 
as  lapsed  intelligence:  the  action,  found  useful  by  the 
species  or  by  certain  of  its  representatives,  is  supposed 
to  have  engendered  a habit,  which,  by  hereditary  trans- 
mission, has  become  an  instinct.  Of  these  two  types  of 
theory,  the  first  has  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  bring 
in  hereditary  transmission  without  raising  grave  objection; 
for  the  accidental  modification  which  it  places  at  the 
origin  of  the  instinct  is  not  supposed  to  have  been  acquired 
by  the  individual,  but  to  have  been  inherent  in  the  germ. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  absolutely  incapable  of  ex- 
plaining instincts  as  sagacious  as  those  of  most  insects. 
These  instincts  surely  could  not  have  attained,  all  at  once, 
their  present  degree  of  complexity;  they  have  probably 
evolved ; but,  in  a hypothesis  like  that  of  the  neo-Darwin- 
ians, the  evolution  of  instinct  could  have  come  to  pass  only 
by  the  progressive  addition  of  new  pieces  which,  in  some 
way,  by  happy  accidents,  came  to  fit  into  the  old.  Now 
it  is  evident  that,  in  most  cases,  instinct  could  not  have 
perfected  itself  by  simple  accretion:  each  new  piece  really 
requires,  if  all  is  not  to  be  spoiled,  a complete  recasting 
of  the  whole.  How  could  mere  chance  work  a recast- 
ing of  the  kind?  I agree  that  an  accidental  modifica- 
tion of  the  germ  may  be  passed  on  hereditarily,  and  may 
somehow  wait  for  fresh  accidental  modifications  to  come 
and  complicate  it.  I agree  also  that  natural  selection 
may  eliminate  all  those  of  the  more  complicated  forms 
of  instinct  that  are  not  fit  to  survive.  Still,  in  order  that 
the  life  of  the  instinct  may  evolve,  complications  fit  to 
survive  have  to  be  produced.  Now  they  will  be  produced 
only  if,  in  certain  cases,  the  addition  of  a new  element 
brings  about  the  correlative  change  of  all  the  old  elements. 
No  one  will  maintain  that  chance  could  perform  such  a 


170 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


miracle:  in  one  form  or  another  we  shall  appeal  to  in- 
telligence. We  shall  suppose  that  it  is  by  an  effort,  more 
or  less  conscious,  that  the  living  being  develops  a higher 
instinct.  But  then  we  shall  have  to  admit  that  an  acquired 
habit  can  become  hereditary,  and  that  it  does  so  regularly 
enough  to  ensure  an  evolution.  The  thing  is  doubtful, 
to  put  it  mildly.  Even  if  we  could  refer  the  instincts  of 
animals  to  habits  intelligently  acquired  and  hereditarily 
transmitted,  it  is  not  clear  how  this  sort  of  explanation 
cpulch  be  extended  to  the  vegetable  world,  where  effort 
is  never  intelligent,  even  supposing  it  is  sometimes  con- 
scious. And  yet,  when  we  see  with  what  sureness  and 
precision  climbing  plants  use  their  tendrils,  what  mar- 
velously combined  manoeuvres  the  orchids  perform  to 
procure  their  fertilization  by  means  of  insects,^  how  can 
we  help  thinking  that  these  are  so  many  instincts? 

This  is  not  saying  that  the  theory  of  the  neo-Darwinians 
must  be  altogether  rejected,  any  more  than  that  of  the 
neo-Lama^ckians.  The  first  are  probably  right  in  holding 
that  evolution  takes  place  from  germ  to  germ  rather  than 
from  individual  to  individual;  the  second  are  right  in 
saying  that  at  the  origin  of  instinct  there  is  an  effort 
(although  it  is  something  quite  different,  w^e  believe,  from 
an  intelligent  effort).  But  the  former  are  probably  WTong 
when  they  make  the  evolution  of  instinct  an  accidental 
evolution,  and  the  latter  when  they  regard  the  effort  from 
w^hich  instinct  proceeds  as  an  individual  effort.  The  effort 
by  w’hich  a species  modifies  its  instinct,  and  modifies 
itself  as  well,  must  be  a much  deeper  thing,  dependent 
solely  neither  on  circumstances  nor  on  individuals.  It 
is  not  purely  accidental,  although  accident  has  a large 
place  in  it;  and  it  does  not  depend  solely  on  the  initia- 

1 See  the  two  works  of  Darwin,  Climbing  Plants  and  The  Fertili- 
zation of  Orchids  by  Insects. 


n.l 


THE  NATURE  OF  INSTINCT 


171 


tive  of  individuals,  although  individuals  collaborate  in  it. 

Compare  the  different  forms  of  the  same  instinct  in 
different  species  of  hymenoptera.  The  impression  de- 
rived is  not  always  that  of  an  increasing  complexity  made 
of  elements  that  have  been  added  together  one  after  the 
other.  Nor  does  it  suggest  the  idea  of  steps  up  a ladder. 
Prather  do  we  think,  in  many  cases  at  least,  of  the  circum- 
ference of  a circle,  from  different  points  of  which  these 
different  varieties  have  started,  all  facing  the  same  centre, 
all  making  an  effort  in  that  direction,  but  each  approach- 
ing it  only  to  the  extent  of  its  means,  and  to  the  extent 
also  to  which  this  central  point  has  been  illumined  for  it. 
In  other  words,  instinct  is  everywhere  complete,  but  it  is 
more  or  less  simplified,  and,  above  all,  simplified  differently. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  cases  where  we  do  get  the  impression 
of  an  ascending  scale,  as  if  one  and  the  same  instinct  had 
gone  on  complicating  itself  more  and  more  in  one  direction 
and  along  a straight  line,  the  species  which  are  thus  ar- 
ranged by  their  instincts  into  a linear  series  are  by  no  means 
always  akin.  Thus,  the  comparative  study,  in  recent 
years,  of  the  social  instinct  in  the  different  apidae  proves 
that  the  instinct  of  the  meliponines  is  intermediary  in 
complexity  between  the  still  rudimentary  tendency  of  the 
humble  bees  and  the  consummate  science  of  the  true  bees; 
yet  there  can  be  no  kinship  between  the  bees  and  the 
meliponines.  1 Most  likely,  the  degree  of  complexity  of 
these  different  societies  has  nothing  to  do  with  any  greater 
or  smaller  number  of  added  elements.  We  seem  rather  to 
be  before  a musical  theme,  which  had  first  been  transposed, 
the  theme  as  a whole,  into  a certain  number  of  tones, 
and  on  which,  still  the  whole  theme,  different  variations 
had  been  played,  some  very  simple,  others  very  skilful. 

1 Buttel-Reepen,  “Die  phylogenetische  Entstehung  des  Bienen- 
staates’^  (Biol.  Centralblatt,  xxiii.  1903),  p.  108  in  particular. 


172 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


As  to  the  original  theme,  it  is 'everywhere  and  nowh-ere. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  try  to  express  it  in  terms  of  any  idea : 
it  must  have  been,  originally,  felt  rather  than  thought.  We 
get  the  same  impression  before  the  paralyzing  instinct 
of  certain  wasps.  We  know  that  the  different  species 
of  hymenoptera  that  have  this  paralyzing  instinct  lay  their 
■eggs  in  spiders,  beetles  or  caterpillars,  which,  having  first 
been  subjected  by  the  wasp  to  a skilful  surgical  operation, 
will  go  on  living  motionless  a certain  number  of  days,  and 
thus  {)rovide  the  larvae  with  fresh  meat.  In  the  sting 
which  they  give  to  the  nerve-centres  of  their  victim,  in 
order  to  destroy  its  power  of  moving  without  killing  it, 
these  different  species  of  hymenoptera  take  into  account, 
so  to  speak,  the  different  species  of  prey  they  respectively 
attack.  The  Scolia,  which  attacks  a larva  of  the  rose- 
beetle,  stings  it  in  one  point  only,  but  in  this  point  the 
motor  ganglia  are  concentrated,  and  those  ganglia  alone: 
the  stinging  of  other  ganglia  might  cause  death  and  putre- 
faction, which  it  must  avoid. ^ The  yellow- winged  Sphex, 
which  has  chosen  the  cricket  for  its  victim,  knows  that  the 
cricket  has  three  nerve-centres  which  serve  its  three  pairs 
of  legs — or  at  least  it  acts  as  if  it  knew  this.  It  stings 
the  insect  first  under  the  neck,  then  behind  the  prothorax, 
and  then  where  the  thorax  joins  the  abdomen. ^ The 
Ammophila  Hirsuta  gives  nine  successive  strokes  of  its 
sting  upon  nine  nerve-centres  of  its  caterpillar,  and  then 
seizes  the  head  and  squeezes  it  in  its  mandibles,  enough  to 
cause  paralysis  without  death.^  The  general  theme  is 
“the  necessity  of  paralyzing  without  killing”;  the  vari- 
ations are  subordinated  to  the  structure  of  the  \dctim  on 
which  they  are  played.  No  doubt  the  operation  is  not 

* Fabre,  Souvenirs  er,.iomologiques , 3®  s6rie,  Paris,  1890,  pp.  1-69. 

2 Fabre,  Souvenirs  entotnologiques , F®  serie,  3®  Edition,  Paris,  1894, 
pp.  93  ff. 

® Fabre,  Nouveauz  souvenirs  entomologiques , Paris,  1882,  pp.  14  ff. 


II.l 


THE  NATURE  OF  INSTINCT 


173 


always  perfect.  It  has  recently  been  shown  that  the 
Ammophila  sometimes  kills  the  caterpillar  instead  of 
paralyzing  it,  that  sometimes  also  it  paralyzes  it  incom- 
pletely.* But,  because  instinct  is,  like  intelligence,  fallible, 
because  it  also  shows  individual  deviations,  it  does  not  at 
all  follow  that  the  instinct  of  the  Ammophila  has  been 
acquired,  as  has  been  claimed,  by  tentative  intelligent 
experiments.  Even  supposing  that  the  Ammophila  has 
come  in  cour.se  of  time  to  recognize,  one  after  another, 
by  tentative  experiment,  the  points  of  its  victim  wRich 
must  be  stung  to  render  it  motionless,  and  also  the  special 
treatment  that  must  be  inflicted  on  the  head  to  bring  about 
paralysis  without  death,  how  can  we  imagine  that  elements 
so  special  of  a knowdedge  so  precise  have  been  regularly 
transmitted,  one  by  one,  by  heredity?  If,  in  all  our  present 
experience,  there  were  a single  indisputable  example  of 
a transmission  of  this  kind,  the  inheritance  of  acquired 
characters  would  be  questioned  by  no  one.  As  a matter 
of  fact,  the  hereditary  transmission  of  a contracted  habit 
is  effected  in  an  irregular  and  far  from  precise  manner, 
supposing  it  is  ever  really  effected  at  all. 

But  the  whole  difficulty  comes  from  our  desire  to  ex- 
press the  knowledge  of  the  hymenoptera  in  terms  of  in- 
telligence. It  is  this  that  compels  us  to  compare  the 
Ammophila  with  the  entomologist,  who  knows  the  cater- 
pillar as  he  knows  everything  else — from  the  outside,  and 
without  having  on  his  part  a special  or  vital  interest. 
The  Ammophila,  w^e  imagine,  must  learn,  one  by  one, 
like  the  entomologist,  the  positions  of  the  nerve-centres 
of  the  caterpillar — must  acquire  at  least  the  practical 
knowledge  of  these  positions  by  trying  the  effects  of  its 
sting.  But  there  is  no  need  for  such  a view  if  we  suppose 
a sympathy  (in  the  etymological  sense  of  the  word)  between 

* Peckham,  TFasps,  Solitary  and  Social,  Westminster,  1905,  pp.  28  ff. 


174 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  Ammophila  and  its  victim,  which  teaches  it  from 
within,  so  to  say,  concerning  the  vulnerability  of  the 
caterpillar.  This  feeling  of  vulnerability  might  owe  noth- 
ing to  outward  perception,  but  result  from  the  mere  presence 
together  of  the  Ammophila  and  the  caterpillar,  considered 
no  longer  as  two  organisms,  but  as  two  activities.  It 
would  express,  in  a concrete  form,  the  relation  of  the  one 
to  the  other.  Certainly,  a scientific  theory  cannot  appeal 
to  considerations  of  this  kind.  It  must  not  put  action 
before  organization,  sympathy  before  perception  and  know- 
ledge. But,  once  more,  either  philosophy  has  nothing 
to  see  here,  or  its  role  begins  where  that  of  science  ends. 

Whether  it  makes  instinct  a “compound  reflex,”  or 
a habit  formed  intelligently  that  has  become  automatism, 
or  a sum  of  small  accidental  advantages  accumulated 
and  fixed  by  selection,  in  every  case  science  claims  to 
resolve  instinct  completely  either  into  intelligent  actions, 
or  into  mechanisms  built  up  piece  by  piece  like  those 
combined  by  our  intelligence.  I agree  indeed  that  science 
is  here  within  its  function.  It  gives  us,  in  default  of  a real 
analysis  of  the  object,  a translation  of  this  object  in  terms 
of  intelligence.  But  is  it  not  plain  that  science  itself 
invites  philosophy  to  consider  things  in  another  way? 
If  our  biology  was  still  that  of  Aristotle,  if  it  regarded  the 
series  of  living  beings  as  unilinear,  if  it  showed  us  the  whole 
of  life  evolving  towards  intelligence  and  passing,  to  that 
end,  through  sensibility  and  instinct,  we  should  be  right, 
we,  the  intelligent  beings,  in  turning  back  towards  the 
earlier  and  consequently  inferior  manifestations  of  life 
and  in  claiming  to  fit  them,  without  deforming  them,  into 
the  molds  of  our  understanding.  But  one  of  the  clearest 
results  of  biology  has  been  to  show  that  evolution  has 
taken  place  along  divergent  lines.  It  is  at  the  extremity 
of  two  of  these  lines — the  two  principal — that  w^e  find 


II.l 


THE  NATURE  OF  INSTINCT 


175 


intelligence  and  instinct  in  forms  almost  pure.  Why, 
then,  should  instinct  be  resolvable  into  intelligent  elements? 
Why,  even,  into  terms  entirely  intelligible?  Is  it  not 
obvious  that  to  think  here  of  the  intelligent,  or  of  the  abso- 
lutely intelligible,  is  to  go  back  to  the  Aristotelian  theory 
of  nature?  No  doubt  it  is  better  to  go  back  to  that  than 
to  stop  short  before  instinct  as  before  an  unfathomable 
mystery.  But,  though  instinct  is  not  within  the  domain 
of  intelligence,  it  is  not  situated  beyond  the  limits  of  mind. 
In  the  phenomena  of  feeling,  in  unreflecting  sympathy 
and  antipathy,  we  experience  in  ourselves — though  under 
a much  vaguer  form,  and  one  too  much  penetrated  with 
intelligence — something  of  what  must  happen  in  the 
consciousness  of  an  insect  acting  by  instinct.  Evolu- 
tion does  but  sunder,  in  order  to  develop  them  to  the  end, 
elements  which,  at  their  origin,  interpenetrated  each 
other.  More  precisely,  intelligence  is,  before  anything 
else,  the  faculty  of  relating  one  point  of  space  to  another, 
one  material  object  to  another;  it  applies  to  all  things, 
but  remains  outside  them;  and  of  a deep  cause  it  perceives 
only  the  effects  spread  out  side  by  side.  Whatever  be 
the  force  that  is  at  work  in  the  genesis  of  the  nervous 
system  of  the  caterpillar,  to  our  eyes  and  our  intelligence 
it  is  only  a juxtaposition  of  nerves  and  nervous  centres. 
It  is  true  that  we  thus  get  the  whole  outer  effect  of  it.  The 
Ammophila,  no  doubt,  discerns  but  a very  little  of  that 
force,  just  what  concerns  itself;  but  at  least  it  discerns 
it  from  within,  quite  otherwise  than  by  a process  of  know- 
ledge— by  an  intuition  (lived  rather  than  represented), 
which  is  probably  like  what  we  call  divining  sympathy. 

A very  significant  fact  is  the  swing  to  and  fro  of  scientific 
theories  of  instinct,  from  regarding  it  as  intelligent  to 
regarding  it  as  simply  intelligible,  or,  shall  I say,  between 
likening  it  to  an  intelligence  “lapsed’^  and  reducing  it 


176 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  a pure  mechanism. ^ Each  of  these  systems  of  explana- 
tion triumphs  in  its  criticism  of  the  other,  the  first  when 
it  shows  us  that  instinct  cannot  be  a mere  reflex,  the  other 
when  it  declares  that  instinct  is  something  different  from 
intelligence,  even  fallen  into  unconsciousness.  What  can 
this  mean  but  that  they  are  two  symbolisms,  equally 
acceptable  in  certain  respects,  and,  in  other  respects, 
equally  inadequate  to  their  object?  The  concrete  explana- 
tion, no  longer  scientific,  but  metaphysical,  must  be  sought 
along  quite  another  path,  not  in  the  direction  of  intelligence, 
but  in  that  of  “sympathy.’^ 

Instinct  is  sympathy.  If  this  sympathy  could  extend 
its  object  and  also  reflect  upon  itself,  it  would  give  us 
the  key  to  vital  operations — just  as  intelligence,  developed 
and  disciplined,  guides  us  into  matter.  For — we  cannot 
too  often  repeat  it — intelligence  and  instinct  are  turned 
in  opposite  directions,  the  former  towards  inert  matter, 
the  latter  towards  life.  Intelligence,  by  means  of  science, 
which  is  its  work,  will  deliver  up  to  us  more  and  more 
completely  the  secret  of  physical  operations;  of  life  it 
brings  us,  and  moreover  only  claims  to  bring  us,  a transla- 
tion in  terms  of  inertia.  It  goes  all  round  life,  taking  from 
outside  the  greatest  possible  number  of  views  of  it,  draw- 
ing it  into  itself  instead  of  entering  into  it.  But  it  is  to 
the  very  inwardness  of  life  that  intuition  leads  us — by 
intuition  I mean  instinct  that  has  become  disinterested, 
self-conscious,  capable  of  reflecting  upon  its  object  and  of 
enlarging  it  indefinitely. 

That  an  effort  of  this  kind  is  not  impossible,  is  proved 

^ See,  in  particular,  among  recent  works,  Bethe,  “Dlirfen  wir  den 
Ameisen  und  Bienen  psychische  Qualitaten  zuschreiben?”  (Arch.  /.  d. 
ges.  Physiologie,  1898),  and  Forel,  “Un  Apergu  de  psychologie  com- 
par6e”  (Annie  psychologique,  1895). 


Il.l 


LIFE  AND  CONSCIOUSNESS 


177 


by  the  existence  in  man  of  an  aesthetic  faculty  along  with 
normal  perception.  Our  eye  perceives  the  features  of 
the  living  being,  merely  as  assembled,  not  as  mutually 
organized.  The  intention  of  life,  the  simple  movement 
that  runs  through  the  lines,  that  binds  them  together  and 
gives  them  significance,  escapes  it.  This  intention  is 
just  what  the  artist  tries  to  regain,  in  placing  himself 
back  within  the  object  by  a kind  of  sympathy,  in  breaking 
down,  by  an  effort  of  intuition,  the  barrier  that  space 
puts  up  between  him  and  his  model.  It  is  true  that  this 
aesthetic  intuition,  like  external  perception,  only  attains 
the  individual.  But  we  can  conceive  an  inquiry  turned 
in  the  same  direc^tion  as  art,  which  would  take  life  in  general 
for  its  object,  just  as  physical  science,  in  following  to  the 
end  the  direction  pointed  out  by  external  perception,  pro- 
longs the  individual  facts  into  general  laws.  No  doubt 
this  philosophy  will  never  obtain  a knowledge  of  its  object 
comparable  to  that  which  science  has  of  its  own.  In- 
telligence remains  the  luminous  nucleus  around  which 
instinct,  even  enlarged  and  purified  into  intuition,  forms 
only  a vague  nebulosity.  But,  in  default  of  knowledge 
properly  so  called,  reserved  to  pure  intelligence,  intuition 
may  enable  us  to  grasp  what  it  is  that  intelfigence  fails 
to  give  us,  and  indicate  the  means  of  supplementing  it. 
On  the  one  hand,  it  will  utilize  the  mechanism  of  intelli- 
gence itself  to  show  how  intellectual  molds  cease  to  be 
strictly  applicable;  and  on  the  other  hand,  by  its  own  work, 
it  will  suggest  to  us  the  vague  feeling,  if  nothing  more,  of 
what  must  take  the  place  of  intellectual  molds.  Thus, 
intuition  may  bring  the  intellect  to  recognize  that  life 
does  not  quite  go  into  the  category  of  the  many  nor  yet 
into  that  of  the  one;  that  neither  mechanical  causality 
nor  finality  can  give  a sufficient  interpretation  of  the  vital 
process.  Then,  by  the  sympathetic  communication  which 


178 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


it  establishes  between  us  and  the  rest  of  the  living,  by  the 
expansion  of  our  consciousness  which  it  brings  about, 
it  introduces  us  into  life’s  own  domain,  which  is  reciprocal 
interpenetration,  endlessly  continued  creation.  But,  though 
it  thereby  transcends  intelligence,  it  is  from  intelligence 
that  has  come  the  push  that  has  made  it  rise  to  the  point 
it  has  reached.  Without  intelligence,  it  would  have 
remained  in  the  form  of  instinct,  riveted  to  the  special 
object  of  its  practical  interest,  and  turned  outward  by  it 
into ''movements  of  locomotion. 

How  theory  of  knowledge  must  take  account  of  these 
two  faculties,  intellect  and  intuition,  and  how  also,  for 
want  of  establishing  a sufficiently  clear  distinction  between 
them,  it  becomes  involved  in  inextricable  difficulties,  creat- 
ing phantoms  of  ideas  to  which  there  cling  phantoms  of 
problems,  we  shall  endeavor  to  show  a little  further  on. 
We  shall  see  that  the  problem  of  knowledge,  from  this  point 
of  view,  is  one  with  the  metaphysical  problem,  and  that 
both  one  and  the  other  depend  upon  experience.  On  the 
one  hand,  indeed,  if  intelligence  is  charged  with  matter  and 
instinct  with  life,  we  must  squeeze  them  both  in  order 
to  get  the  double  essence  from  them;  metaphysics  is 
therefore  dependent  upon  theory  of  knowledge.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  if  consciousness  has  thus  split  up  into 
intuition  and  intelligence,  it  is  because  of  the  need  it  had  to 
apply  itself  to  matter  at  the  same  tim.e  as  it  had  to  follow 
the  stream  of  life.  The  double  form  of  consciousness  is 
then  due  to  the  double  form  of  the  real,  and  theory  of 
knowledge  must  be  dependent  upon  metaphysics.  In 
fact,  each  of  these  two  lines  of  thought  leads  to  the  other; 
they  form  a circle,  and  there  can  be  no  other  centre  to 
the  circle  but  the  empirical  study  of  evolution.  It  is  only 
in  seeing  consciousness  run  through  matter,  lose  itself 
there  and  find  itself  there  again,  divide  and  reconstitute 


II.] 


LIFE  AND  CONSCIOUSNESS 


179 


itself,  that  we  shall  form  an  idea  of  the  mutual  opposition 
of  the  two  terms,  as  also,  perhaps,  of  their  common  origin. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  by  dwelling  on  this  opposition 
of  the  two  elements  and  on  this  identity  of  origin,  perhaps 
we  shall  bring  out  more  clearly  the  meaning  of  evolution 
itself. 

Such  will  be  the  aim  of  our  next  chapter.  But  the 
facts  that  we  have  just  noticed  must  have  already  sug- 
gested to  us  the  idea  that  life  is  connected  either  with 
consciousness  or  with  something  that  resembles  it. 

Throughout  the  whole  extent  of  the  animal  kingdom, 
we  have  said,  consciousness  seems  proportionate  to  the 
living  being^s  power  of  choice.  It  lights  up  the  zone 
of  potentialities  that  surrounds  the  act.  It  fills  the  interval 
between  what  is  done  and  what  might  be  done.  Looked 
at  from  without,  we  may  regard  it  as  a simple  aid  to  action, 
a light  that  action  kindles,  a momentary  spark  flying  up 
from  the  friction  of  real  action  against  possible  actions. 
But  we  must  also  point  out  that  things  would  go  on  in  just 
the  same  way  if  consciousness,  instead  of  being  the  effect, 
were  the  cause.  We  might  suppose  that  consciousness, 
even  in  the  most  rudimentary  animal,  covers  by  right  an 
enormous  field,  but  is  compressed  in  fact  in  a kind  of  vise: 
each  advance  of  the  nervous  centres,  by  giving  the  organism 
a choice  between  a larger  number  of  actions,  calls  forth  the 
potentialities  that  are  capable  of  surrounding  the  real, 
thus  opening  the  vise  wider  and  allowing  consciousness 
to  pass  more  freely.  In  this  second  hypothesis,  as  in 
the  first,  consciousness  is  still  the  instrument  of  action; 
but  it  is  even  more  true  to  say  that  action  is  the  instrument 
of  consciousness;  for  the  complicating  of  action  with  action, 
and  the  opposing  of  action  to  action,  are  for  the  imprisoned 
consciousness  the  only  possible  means  to  set  itself  free. 
How,  then,  shall  we  choose  between  the  two  hypotheses? 


180 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


If  the  first  is  true,  consciousness  must  express  exactly, 
at  each  instant,  the  state  of  the  brain;  there  is  strict 
parallelism  (so  far  as  intelligible)  between  the  psychical 
and  the  cerebral  state.  On  the  second  hypothesis,  on 
the  contrary,  there  is  indeed  solidarity  and  interdependence 
between  the  brain  and  consciousness,  but  not  parallelism: 
the  more  complicated  the  brain  becomes,  thus  giving  the 
organism  greater  choice  of  possible  actions,  the  more 
does  consciousness  outrun  its  physical  concomitant.  Thus, 
the  recollection  of  the  same  spectacle  probably  modifies 
in  the  same  way  a dog’s  brain  and  a man’s  brain,  if  the 
perception  has  been  the  same;  yet  the  recollection  must 
be  very  different  in  the  man’s  consciousness  from  what 
it  is  in  the  dog’s.  In  the  dog,  the  recollection  remains 
the  captive  of  perception;  it  is  brought  back  to  conscious- 
ness only  when  an  analogous  perception  recalls  it  by  re- 
producing the  same  spectacle,  and  then  it  is  manifested 
by  the  recognition,  acted  rather  than  thought,  of  the  present 
perception  much  more  than  by  an  actual  reappearance 
of  the  recollection  itself.  Man,  on  the  contrary,  is  capable 
of  calling  up  the  recollection  at  will,  at  any  moment,  in- 
dependently of  the  present  perception.  He  is  not  limited 
to  playing  his  past  life  again;  he  represents  and  dreams  it. 
The  local  modification  of  the  brain  to  which  the  recollection 
is  attached  being  the  same  in  each  case,  the  psychological 
difference  between  the  two  recollections  cannot  have  its 
ground  in  a particular  difference  of  detail  between  the  two 
cerebral  mechanisms,  but  in  the  difference  between  the 
two  brains  taken  each  as  a whole.  The  more  complex 
of  the  two,  in  putting  a greater  number  of  mechanisms  in 
opposition  to  one  another,  has  enabled  consciousness 
to  disengage  itself  from  the  restraint  of  one  and  all  and  to 
reach  independence.  That  things  do  happen  in  this  way, 
that  the  second  of  the  two  hypotheses  is  that  which  must 


LIFE  AND  CONSCIOUSNESS 


181 


II. 1 

be  chosen,  is  what  we  have  tried  to  prove,  in  a former 
work,  by  the  study  of  facts  that  best  bring  into  relief 
the  relation  of  the  conscious  state  to  the  cerebral  state, 
the  facts  of  normal  and  pathological  recognition,  in  particu- 
lar the  forms  of  aphasia. ^ But  it  could  have  been  proved 
by  pure  reasoning,  before  even  it  was  evidenced  by  facts. 
We  have  shown  on  what  self-contradictory  postulate, 
on  what  confusion  of  two  mutually  incompatible  symbol- 
isms, the  hypothesis  of  equivalence  between  the  cerebral 
state  and  the  psychic  state  rests.* 

The  evolution  of  life,  looked  at  from  this  point,  receives 
a clearer  meaning,  although  it  cannot  be  subsumed  under 
any  actual  idea.  It  is  as  if  a broad  current  of  conscious- 
ness had  penetrated  matter,  loaded,  as  all  consciousness 
is,  with  an  enormous  multiplicity  of  interwoven  potential- 
ities. It  has  carried  matter  along  to  organization,  but  its 
movement  has  been  at  once  infinitely  retarded  and  in- 
finitely divided.  On  the  one  hand,  indeed,  consciousness 
has  had  to  fall  asleep,  like  the  chrysalis  in  the  envelope 
in  which  it  is  preparing  for  itself  wings;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  manifold  tendencies  it  contained  have  been 
distributed  among  divergent  series  of  organisms  which, 
moreover,  express  these  tendencies  outwardly  in  move- 
ments rather  than  internally  in  representations.  In  the 
course  of  this  evolution,  while  some  beings  have  fallen 
more  and  more  asleep,  others  have  more  and  more  complete- 
ly awakened,  and  the  torpor  of  some  has  served  the  activity 
of  others.  But  the  waking  could  be  effected  in  two  different 
ways.  Life,  that  is  to  say  consciousness  launched  into 
matter,  fixed  its  attention  either  on  its  own  movement  or 
on  the  matter  it  was  passing  through;  and  it  has  thus 

» Matiere  et  mimoire,  chaps,  ii.  and  iii. 

* “Le  Paralogisme  psycho-physiologique’*  {Revue  de  mitaphysique, 
Nov.  1904). 


182 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


been  turned  either  in  the  direction  of  intuition  or  in  that  of 
intellect.  Intuition,  at  first  sight,  seems  far  preferable 
to  intellect,  since  in  it  life  and  consciousness  remain  within 
themselves.  But  a glance  at  the  evolution  of  living  beings 
shows  us  that  intuition  could  not  go  very  far.  On  the 
side  of  intuition,  consciousness  found  itself  so  restricted 
by  its  envelope  that  intuition  had  to  shrink  into  instinct, 
that  is,  to  embrace  only  the  very  small  portion  of  life  that 
interested  it;  and  this  it  embraces  only  in  the  dark,  touch- 
ing it  while  hardly  seeing  it.  On  this  side,  the  horizon 
was  soon  shut  out.  On  the  contrary,  consciousness,  in 
shaping  itself  into  intelligence,  that  is  to  say  in  concentrat- 
ing itself  at  first  on  matter,  seems  to  externalize  itself  in 
relation  to  itself;  but,  just  because  it  adapts  itself  thereby 
to  objects  from  without,  it  succeeds  in  moving  among 
them  and  in  evading  the  barriers  they  oppose  to  it,  thus 
opening  to  itself  an  unlimited  field.  Once  freed,  more- 
over, it  can  turn  inwards  on  itself,  and  awaken  the  po- 
tentialities of  intuition  which  still  slumber  within  it. 

From  this  point  of  view,  not  only  does  consciousness 
appear  as  the  motive  principle  of  evolution,  but  also, 
among  conscious  beings  themselves,  man  comes  to  occupy 
a privileged  place.  Between  him  and  the  animals  the  dif- 
ference is  no  longer  one  of  degree,  but  of  kind.  We  shall 
show  how  this  conclusion  is  arrived  at  in  our  next  chapter. 
Let  us  now  show  how  the  preceding  analyses  suggest  it. 

A noteworthy  fact  is  the  extraordinary  disproportion 
between  the  consequences  of  an  invention  and  the  invention 
itself.  We  have  said  that  intelligence  is  modeled  on  matter 
and  that  it  aims  in  the  first  place  at  fabrication.  But 
does  it  fabricate  in  order  to  fabricate  or  does  it  not  pursue 
involuntarily,  and  even  unconsciously,  something  entirely 
different?  Fabricating  consists  in  shaping  matter,  in 
making  it  supple  and  in  bending  it,  in  converting  it  into 


II.l 


LIFE  AND  CONSCIOUSNESS 


183 


an  instrument  in  order  to  become  master  of  it.  It  is 
this  mastery  that  profits  humanity,  much  more  even  than 
the  material  result  of  the  invention  itself.  Though  we 
derive  an  immediate  advantage  from  the  thing  made,  as 
an  intelligent  animal  might  do,  and  though  this  advantage 
be  all  the  inventor  sought,  it  is  a slight  matter  compared 
with  the  new  ideas  and  new  feelings  that  the  invention 
may  give  rise  to  in  every  direction,  as  if  the  essential  part 
of  the  effect  were  to  raise  us  above  ourselves  and  enlarge 
our  horizon.  Between  the  effect  and  the  cause  the  dis- 
proportion is  so  great  that  it  is  difficult  to  regard  the  cause 
as  producer  of  its  effect.  It  releases  it,  whilst  settling, 
indeed,  its  direction.  Everything  happens  as  though 
the  grip  of  intelligence  on  matter  were,  in  its  main  intention, 
to  let  something  pass  that  matter  is  holding  back. 

The  same  impression  arises  when  we  compare  the  brain 
of  man  with  that  of  the  animals.  The  difference  at  first 
appears  to  be  only  a difference  of  size  and  complexity. 
But,  judging  by  function,  there  must  be  something  else 
besides.  In  the  animal,  the  motor  mechanisms  that  the 
brain  succeeds  in  setting  up,  or,  in  other  words,  the  habits 
contracted  voluntarily,  have  no  other  object  nor  effect 
than  the  accomplishment  of  the  movements  marked  out 
in  these  habits,  stored  in  these  mechanisms.  But,  in  man, 
the  motor  habit  may  have  a second  result,  out  of  proportion 
to  the  first:  it  can  hold  other  motor  habits  in  check,  and 
thereby,  in  overcoming  automatism,  set  consciousness 
free.  We  know  what  vast  regions  in  the  human  brain 
language  occupies.  The  cerebral  mechanisms  that  corre- 
spond to  the  words  have  this  in  particular,  that  they  can 
be  made  to  grapple  with  other  mechanisms,  those,  for 
instance,  that  correspond  to  the  things  themselves,  or 
even  be  made  to  grapple  with  one  another.  Meanwhile 
consciousness,  which  would  have  been  dragged  down  and 


184  CREATIVE  EVOLUTION  [chap. 

drowned  in  the  accomplishment  of  the  act,  is  restored 
and  set  free.' 

The  difference  must  therefore  be  more  radical  than  a 
superficial  examination  would  lead  us  to  suppose.  It  is 
the  difference  between  a mechanism  which  engages  the 
attention  and  a mechanism  from  which  it  can  be  diverted. 
The  primitive  steam-engine,  as  Newcomen  conceived  it, 
required  the  presence  of  a person  exclusively  employed  to 
turn  on  and  off  the  taps,  either  to  let  the  steam  into  the 
cylinder  or  to  throw  the  cold  spray  into  it  in  order  to  con- 
dense the  steam.  It  is  said  that  a boy  employed  on  this 
w’ork,  and  very  tired  of  having  to  do  it,  got  the  idea  of 
tying  the  handles  of  the  taps,  with  cords,  to  the  beam  of 
the  engine.  Then  the  machine  opened  and  closed  the  taps 
itself;  it  wmrked  all  alone.  Now,  if  an  observer  had  com- 
pared the  structure  of  this  second  machine  with  that  of 
the  first  without  taking  into  account  the  two  boys  left  to 
watch  over  them,  he  would  have  found  only  a slight 
difference  of  complexity.  That  is,  indeed,  all  we  can  per- 
ceive when  we  look  only  at  the  machines.  But  if  w^e  cast  a 
glance  at  the  two  boys,  we  shall  see  that  whilst  one  is 
wholly  taken  up  by  the  watching,  the  other  is  free  to 
go  and  play  as  he  chooses,  and  that,  from  this  point  of 
view,  the  difference  between  the  two  machines  is  radical, 
the  first  holding  the  attention  captive,  the  second  setting 
it  at  liberty.  A difference  of  the  same  kind,  we  think, 
would  be  found  between  the  brain  of  an  animal  and  the 
human  brain. 

If,  now,  we  should  wish  to  express  this  in  terms  of 

» A geologist  whom  we  have  already  had  occasion  to  cite,  N.  S. 
Shaler,  well  says  that  “when  we  come  to  man,  it  seems  as  if  we  find 
the  ancient  subjection  o^  mind  to  body  abolished,  and  the  intellectual 
parts  develop  with  an  extraordinary  rapidity,  the  structure  of  the 
body  remaining  identical  in  essentials”  (Shaier,  The  Interpretation 
of  Nature,  Boston,  1899,  p.  187). 


II.l 


LIFE  AND  CONSCIOUSNESS 


185 


finality,  we  should  have  to  say  that  consciousness,  after 
having  been  obliged,  in  order  to  set  itself  free,  to  divide 
organization  into  two  complementary  parts,  vegetables 
on  one  hand  and  animals  on  the  other,  has  sought  an 
issue  in  the  double  direction  of  instinct  and  of  intelligence. 
It  has  not  found  it  with  instinct,  and  it  has  not  obtained 
it  on  the  side  of  intelligence  except  by  a sudden  leap 
from  the  animal  to  man.  So  that,  in  the  last  analysis, 
man  might  be  considered  the  reason  for  the  existence  of 
the  entire  organization  of  life  on  our  planet.  But  this 
would  be  only  a manner  of  speaking.  There  is,  in  reality, 
only  a current  of  existence  and  the  opposing  current; 
thence  proceeds  the  whole  evolution  of  life.  We  must 
now  grasp  more  closely  the  opposition  of  these  two  currents. 
Perhaps  we  shall  thus  discover  for  them  a common  source. 
By  this  we  shall  also,  no  doubt,  penetrate  the  most  obscure 
regions  of  metaphysics.  However,  as  the  two  directions 
we  have  to  follow  are  clearly  marked,  in  intelligence  on  the 
one  hand,  in  instinct  and  intuition  on  the  other,  we  are  not 
afraid  of  straying.  A survey  of  the  evolution  of  life 
suggests  to  us  a certain  conception  of  knowledge,  and  also  a 
certain  metaphysics,  which  imply  each  other.  Once  made 
clear,  this  metaphysics  and  this  critique  may  throw  some 
light,  in  their  turn,  on  evolution  as  a whole. 


CHAPTER  III 


ON  THE  MEANING  OF  LIFE — THE  ORDER  OF  NATURE 
AND  THE  FORM  OF  INTELLIGENCE 

In  th^  course  of  our  first  chapter  we  traced  a line  of  de- 
marcation between  the  inorganic  and  the  organized, 
but  we  pointed  out  that  the  division  of  unorganized  matter 
into  separate  bodies  is  relative  to  our  senses  and  to  our 
intellect,  and  that  matter,  looked  at  as  an  undivided 
whole,  must  be  a flux  rather  than  a thing.  In  this  we 
were  preparing  the  way  for  a reconciliation  between  the 
inert  and  the  living. 

On  the  other  side,  we  have  shown  in  our  second  chapter 
that  the  same  opposition  is  found  again  between  instinct 
and  intelligence,  the  one  turned  to  certain  determinations 
of  life,  the  other  molded  on  the  configuration  of  matter. 
But  instinct  and  intelligence,  we  have  also  said,  stand 
out  from  the  same  background,  which,  for  want  of  a better 
name,  we  may  call  consciousness  in  general,  and  which 
must  be  coextensive  with  universal  life.  In  this  way,  we 
have  disclosed  the  possibility  of  showing  the  genesis  of 
intelligence  in  setting  out  from  general  consciousness, 
which  embraces  it. 

We  are  now,  then,  to  attempt  a genesis  of  intellect 
at  the  same  time  as  a genesis  of  material  bodies — two 
enterprises  that  are  .evidently  correlative,  if  it  be  true 
that  the  main  lines  of  our  intellect  mark  out  the  general 
form  of  our  action  on  matter,  and  that  the  detail  of  matter 

is  ruled  by  the  requirements  of  our  action.  Intellectuality 

186 


m.i 


THE  METHOD  OF  PHILOSOPHY 


187 


and  materiality  have  been  constituted,  in  detail,  by 
reciprocal  adaptation.  Both  are  derived  from  a wider 
and  higher  form  of  existence.  It  is  there  that  we  must 
replace  them,  in  order  to  see  them  issue  forth. 

Such  an  attempt  may  appear,  at  first,  more  daring 
than  the  boldest  speculations  of  metaphysicians.  It 
claims  to  go  further  than  psychology,  further  than  cos- 
mology, further  than  traditional  metaphysics;  for  psy- 
chology, cosmology  and  metaphysics  take  intelligence, 
in  all  that  is  essential  to  it,  as  given,  instead  of,  as  we  now 
propose,  engendering  it  in  its  form  and  in  its  matter.  The 
enterprise  is  in  reality  much  more  modest,  as  we  are  going 
to  show.  But  let  us  first  say  how  it  differs  from  others. 

To  begin  with  psychology,  we  are  not  to  believe  that 
it  engenders  intelligence  when  it  follows  the  progressive 
development  of  it  through  the  animal  series.  Comparative 
psychology  teaches  us  that  the  more  an  animal  is  intelligent, 
the  more  it  tends  to  reflect  on  the  actions  by  which  it 
makes  use  of  things,  and  thus  to  approximate  to  man. 
But  its  actions  have  already  by  themselves  adopted  the 
principal  lines  of  human  action;  they  have  made  out  the 
same  general  directions  in  the  material  world  as  we  have; 
they  depend  upon  the  same  objects  bound  together  by 
the  same  relations;  so  that  animal  intelligence,  although 
it  does  not  form  concepts  properly  so  called,  already  moves 
in  a conceptual  atmosphere.  Absorbed  at  every  instant 
by  the  actions  it  performs  and  the  attitudes  it  must  adopt, 
drawn  outward  by  them  and  so  externalized  in  relation 
to  itself,  it  no  doubt  plays  rather  than  thinks  its  ideas; 
this  play  none  the  less  already  corresponds,  in  the  main, 
to  the  general  plan  of  human  intelligence.^  To  explain 
the  intelligence  of  man  by  that  of  the  animal  consists 

1 We  have  developed  this  point  in  Matiere  et  memoire,  chaps,  ii.  and 
iii.,  notably  pp.  78-80  and  169-186. 


188 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


then  simply  in  following  the  development  of  an  embryo 
of  humanity  into  complete  humanity.  We  show  how  a 
certain  direction  has  been  followed  further  and  further 
by  beings  more  and  more  intelligent.  But  the  moment 
we  admit  the  direction,  intelligence  is  given. 

In  a cosmogony  like  that  of  Spencer,  intelligence  is 
taken  for  granted,  as  matter  also  at  the  same  time.  We 
are  shown  matter  obeying  laws,  objects  connected  with 
objects  and  facts  with  facts  by  constant  relations,  con- 
sciousness receiving  the  imprint  of  these  relations  and 
laws,  and  thus  adopting  the  general  configuration  of 
nature  and  shaping  itself  into  intellect.  But  how  can 
we  fail  to  see  that  intelligence  is  supposed  when  we  admit 
objects  and  facts?  A 'priori  and  apart  from  any  hypothesis 
on  the  nature  of  the  matter,  it  is  evident  that  the  material- 
ity of  a body  does  not  stop  at  the  point  at  which  we  touch 
it:  a body  is  present  wherever  its  influence  is  felt;  its 
attractive  force,  to  speak  only  of  that,  is  exerted  on  the 
sun,  on  the  planets,  perhaps  on  the  entire  universe.  The 
more  physics  advances,  the  more  it  effaces  the  individuality 
of  bodies  and  even  of  the  particles  into  which  the  scientific 
imagination  began  by  decomposing  them:  bodies  and 
corpuscles  tend  to  dissolve  into  a universal  interaction. 
Our  perceptions  give  us  the  plan  of  our  eventual  action 
on  things  much  more  than  that  of  things  themselves. 
The  outlines  we  find  in  objects  simply  mark  what  we  can 
attain  and  modify  in  them.  The  lines  we  see  traced 
through  matter  are  just  the  paths  on  which  we  are  called  to 
move.  Outlines  and  paths  have  declared  themselves 
in  the  measure  and  proportion  that  consciousness  has 
prepared  for  action  on  unorganized  matter — that  is  to  say, 
in  the  measure  and  proportion  that  intelligence  has  been 
formed.  It  is  doubtful  whether  animals  built  on  a different 
plan — a mollusc  or  an  insect,  for  instance — cut  matter  up 


III.] 


THE  METHOD  OF  PHILOSOPHY 


189 


along  the  same  articulations.  It  is  not  indeed  necessary 
that  they  should  separate  it  into  bodies  at  all.  In  order  to 
follow  the  indications  of  instinct,  there  is  no  need  to  per- 
ceive objects,  it  is  enough  to  distinguish  properties.  In- 
telligence, on  the  contrary,  even  in  its  humblest  form, 
already  aims  at  getting  matter  to  act  on  matter.  If  on 
one  side  matter  lends  itself  to  a division  into  active  and 
passive  bodies,  or  more  simply  into  coexistent  and  distinct 
fragments,  it  is  from  this  side  that  intelligence  will  regard 
it;  and  the  more  it  busies  itself  vdth  dividing,  the  more  it 
will  spread  out  in  space,  in  the  form  of  extension  adjoining 
extension,  a matter  that  undoubtedly  itself  has  a tendency 
to  spatiality,  but  whose  parts  are  yet  in  a state  of  reciprocal 
implication  and  interpenetration.  Thus  the  same  move- 
ment by  which  the  mind  is  brought  to  form  itself  into 
intellect,  that  is  to  say,  into  distinct  concepts,  brings 
matter  to  break  itself  up  into  objects  excluding  one  another. 
The  more  consciousness  is  intellectualized,  the  more  is  matter 
spatialized.  So  that  the  evolutionist  philosophy,  when  it 
imagines  in  space  a matter  cut  up  on  the  very  lines  that 
our  action  will  follow,  has  given  itself  in  advance,  ready 
made,  the  intelligence  of  which  it  claims  to  show  the  genesis. 

Metaphysics  applies  itself  to  a work  of  the  same  kind, 
though  subtler  and  more  self-conscious,  when  it  deduces 
a priori  the  categories  of  thought.  It  compresses  intellect, 
reduces  it  to  its  quintessence,  holds  it  tight  in  a principle 
so  simple  that  it  can  be  thought  empty:  from  this  principle 
we  then  draw  out  what  we  have  virtually  put  into  it.  In 
this  way  we  may  no  doubt  show  the  coherence  of  intelli- 
gence, define  intellect,  give  its  formula,  but  we  do  not 
trace  its  genesis.  An  enterprise  like  that  of  Fichte,  al- 
though more  philosophical  than  that  of  Spencer,  in  that  it 
pays  more  respect  to  the  true  order  of  things,  hardly  leads 
us  any  further.  Fichte  takes  thought  in  a concentrated 


190 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[OHAP. 


state,  and  expands  it  into  reality;  Spencer  starts  from 
external  reality,  and  condenses  it  into  intellect.  But, 
in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other,  the  intellect  must  be  taken 
at  the  beginning  as  given — either  condensed  or  expanded, 
grasped  in  itself  by  a direct  vision  or  perceived  by  reflection 
in  nature,  as  in  a mirror. 

The  agreement  of  most  philosophers  on  this  point 
comes  from  the  fact  that  they  are  at  one  in  affirming 
the  unity  of  nature,  and  in  representing  this  unity  under 
an  abstract  and  geometrical  form.  Between  the  organized 
and  the  unorganized  they  do  not  see  and  they  will  not  see 
the  cleft.  Some  start  from  the  inorganic,  and,  by  com- 
pounding it  with  itself,  claim  to  form  the  living;  others 
place  life  first,  and  proceed  towards  matter  by  a skilfully 
managed  decrescendo;  but,  for  both,  there  are  only  dif- 
ferences of  degree  in  nature — degrees  of  complexity  in  the 
first  hypothesis,  of  intensity  in  the  second.  Once  this 
principle  is  admitted,  intelligence  becomes  as  vast  as  reality; 
for  it  is  unquestionable  that  whatever  is  geometrical  in 
things  is  entirely  accessible  to  human  intelligence,  and 
if  the  continuity  between  geometry  and  the  rest  is  per- 
fect, all  the  rest  must  indeed  be  equally  intelligible, 
equally  intelligent.  Such  is  the  postulate  of  most  systems. 
Any  one  can  easily  be  convinced  of  this  by  comparing 
doctrines  that  seem  to  have  no  common  point,  no  common 
measure,  those  of  Fichte  and  Spencer  for  instance,  two 
names  that  we  happen  to  have  just  brought  together. 

At  the  root  of  these  speculations,  then,  there  are  the 
two  convictions  correlative  and  complementary,  that 
nature  is  one  and  that  the  function  of  intellect  is  to  em*brace 
it  in  its  entirety.  The  faculty  of  knowing  being  supposed 
coextensive  with  the  whole  of  experience,  there  can  no 
longer  be  any  question  of  engendering  it.  It  is  already 
given,  and  we  merely  have  to  use  it,  as  we  use  our  sight  to 


III.l 


THE  METHOD  OF  PHILOSOPHY 


191 


take  in  the  horizon.  It  is  true  that  opinions  differ  as  to 
the  value  of  the  result.  For  some,  it  is  reality  itself  that 
the  intellect  embraces;  for  others,  it  is  only  a phantom. 
But,  phantom  or  reality,  what  intelligence  grasps  is  thought 
to  be  all  that  can  be  attained. 

Hence  the  exaggerated  confidence  of  philosophy  in 
the  powers  of  the  individual  mind.  Whether  it  is  dog- 
matic or  critical,  whether  it  admits  the  relativity  of  our 
knowledge  or  claims  to  be  established  within  the  absolute, 
a philosophy  is  generally  the  work  of  a philosopher,  a 
single  and  unitary  vision  of  the  whole.  It  is  to  be  taken 
or  left. 

More  modest,  and  also  alone  capable  of  being  completed 
and  perfected,  is  the  philosophy  we  advocate.  Human 
intelligence,  as  we  represent  it,  is  not  at  all  what  Plato 
taught  in  the  allegory  of  the  cave.  Its  function  is  not  to 
look  at  passing  shadows  nor  yet  to  turn  itself  round  and 
contemplate  the  glaring  sun.  It  has  something  else  to  do. 
Harnessed,  like  yoked  oxen,  to  a heavy  task,  we  feel  the 
play  of  our  muscles  and  joints,  the  weight  of  the  plow 
and  the  resistance  of  the  soil.  To  act  and  to  know  that 
we  are  acting,  to  come  into  touch  with  reality  and  even  to 
live  it,  but  only  in  the  measure  in  which  it  concerns  the 
work  that  is  being  accomplished  and  the  furrow  that  is 
being  plowed,  such  is  the  function  of  human  intelligence. 
Yet  a beneficent  fluid  bathes  us,  whence  we  draw  the  very 
force  to  labor  and  to  live.  From  this  ocean  of  life,  in  which 
we  are  immersed,  we  are  continually  drawing  something, 
and  we  feel  that  our  being,  or  at  least  the  intellect  that 
guides  it,  has  been  formed  therein  by  a kind  of  local  con- 
centration. Philosophy  can  only  be  an  effort  to  dissolve 
again  into  the  Whole.  Intelligence,  reabsorbed  into  its 
principle,  may  thus  live  back  again  its  own  genesis.  But 
the  enterprise  cannot  be  achieved  in  one  stroke;  it  is 


192 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


necessarily  collective  and  progressive.  It  consists  in  an 
interchange  of  impressions  which,  correcting  and  adding 
to  each  other,  will  end  by  expanding  the  humanity  in 
us  and  making  us  even  transcend  it. 

But  this  method  has  against  it  the  most  inveterate 
habits  of  the  mind.  It  at  once  suggests  the  idea  of  a 
vicious  circle.  In  vain,  we  shall  be  told,  you  claim  to 
go  beyond  intelligence:  how  can  you  do  that  except 
by  intelligence?  All  that  is  clear  in  your  consciousness 
is  intelligence.  You  are  inside  your  own  thought;  you 
cannot  get  out  of  it.  Say,  if  you  like,  that  the  intellect 
is  capable  of  progress,  that  it  will  see  more  and  more 
clearly  into  a greater  and  greater  number  of  things;  but 
do  not  speak  of  engendering  it,  for  it  is  with  your  intellect 
itself  that  you  would  have  to  do  the  work. 

The  objection  presents  itself  naturally  to  the  mind. 
But  the  same  reasoning  would  prove  also  the  impossibility 
of  acquiring  any  new  habit.  It  is  of  the  essence  of  reason- 
ing to  shut  us  up  in  the  circle  of  the  given.  But  action 
breaks  the  circle.  If  we  had  never  seen  a man  swim,  we 
might  say  that  swimming  is  an  impossible  thing,  inasmuch 
as,  to  learn  to  swim,  we  must  begin  by  holding  ourselves 
up  in  the  water  and,  consequently,  already  know  how  to 
swim.  Reasoning,  in  fact,  always  nails  us  down  to  the 
solid  ground.  But  if,  quite  simply,  I throw  myself  into 
the  water  without  fear,  I may  keep  myself  up  well  enough 
at  first  by  merely  struggling,  and  gradually  adapt  myself 
to  the  new  environment : I shall  thus  have  learnt  to  swim. 
So,  in  theory,  there  is  a kind  of  absurdity  in  trying  to 
know  otherwise  than  by  intelligence;  but  if  the  risk  be 
frankly  accepted,  action  will  perhaps  cut  the  knot  that 
reasoning  has  tied  and  will  not  unloose. 

Besides,  the  risk  will  appear  to  grow  less,  the  more 
our  point  of  view  is  adopted.  We  have  shown  that  in- 


III.l 


THE  METHOD  OF  PHILOSOPHY 


193 


tellect  has  detached  itself  from  a vastly  wider  reality, 
but  that  there  has  never  been  a clean  cut  between  the  two; 
all  around  conceptual  thought  there  remains  an  indistinct 
fringe  which  recalls  its  origin.  And  further  we  compared 
the  intellect  to  a solid  nucleus  formed  by  means  of  con- 
densation. This  nucleus  does  not  differ  radically  from  the 
fluid  surrounding  it.  It  can  only  be  reabsorbed  in  it  be- 
cause it  is  made  of  the  same  substance.  He  who  throws 
himself  into  the  water,  having  known  only  the  resistance 
of  the  solid  earth,  will  immediately  be  drowned  if  he  does 
not  struggle  against  the  fluidity  of  the  new  environment: 
he  must  perforce  still  cling  to  that  solidity,  so  to  speak, 
which  even  water  presents.  Only  on  this  condition  can 
he  get  used  to  the  fluid’s  fluidity.  So  of  our  thought, 
when  it  has  decided  to  make  the  leap. 

But  leap  it  must,  that  is,  leave  its  own  environment. 
Reason,  reasoning  on  its  powers,  will  never  succeed  in 
extending  them,  though  the  extension  would  not  appear 
at  all  unreasonable  once  it  w^ere  accomplished.  Thousands 
and  thousands  of  variations  on  the  theme  of  walking 
will  never  yield  a rule  for  swimming:  come,  enter  the 
water,  and  when  you  know  how  to  swim,  you  will  under- 
stand how  the  mechanism  of  swimming  is  connected 
with  that  of  walking.  Swimming  is  an  extension  of  walk- 
ing, but  walking  would  never  have  pushed  you  on  to 
swimming.  So  you  may  speculate  as  intelligently  as  you 
will  on  the  mechanism  of  intelligence;  you  will  never,  by 
this  method,  succeed  in  going  beyond  it.  You  may  get 
something  more  complex,  but  not  something  higher  nor 
even  something  different.  You  must  take  things  by  storm : 
you  must  thrust  intelligence  outside  itself  by  an  act  of  will. 

So  the  vicious  circle  is  only  apparent.  It  is,  on  the 
contrary,  real,  we  think,  in  every  other  method  of  philoso- 
phy. This  we  must  try  to  show  in  a few  words,  if  only 


194 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


to  prove  that  philosophy  cannot  and  must  not  accept 
the  relation  established  by  pure  intellectualism  between 
the  theory  of  knowledge  and  the  theory  of  the  known, 
between  metaphysics  and  science. 

At  first  sight,  it  may  seem  prudent  to  leave  the  consider- 
ation of  facts  to  positive  science,  to  let  physics  and  chemis- 
try busy  themselves  with  matter,  the  biological  and  psy- 
chological sciences  with  life.  The  task  of  the  philosopher 
is  then  clearly  defined.  He  takes  facts  and  laws  from  the 
scientists’  hand ; and  whether  he  tries  to  go  beyond  them 
in  order  to  reach  their  deeper  causes,  or  whether  he  thinks 
it  impossible  to  go  further  and  even  proves  it  by  the  analysis 
of  scientific  knowledge,  in  both  cases  he  has  for  the  facts 
and  relations,  handed  over  by  science,  the  sort  of  respect 
that  is  due  to  a final  verdict.  To  this  knowledge  he  adds 
a critique  of  the  faculty  of  knowing,  and  also,  if  he  thinks 
proper,  a metaphysic;  but  the  matter  of  knowledge  he 
regards  as  the  affair  of  science  and  not  of  philosophy. 

But  how  does  he  fail  to  see  that  the  real  result  of  this 
so-called  division  of  labor  is  to  mix  up  everything  and  con- 
fuse everything?  The  metaphysic  or  the  critique  that  the 
philosopher  has  reserved  for  himself  he  has  to  receive, 
ready-made,  from  positive  science,  it  being  already  con- 
tained in  the  descriptions  and  analyses,  the  whole  care 
of  which  he  left  to  the  scientists.  For  not  having  wished 
to  intervene,  at  the  beginning,  in  questions  of  fact,  he  finds 
himself  reduced,  in  questions  of  principle,  to  formulating 
purely  and  simply  in  more  precise  terms  the  unconscious 
and  consequently  inconsistent  metaphysic  and  critique 
which  the  very  attitude  of  science  to  reality  marks  out. 
Let  us  not  be  deceived  by  an  apparent  analogy  betw^een 
natural  things  and  human  things.  Here  w^e  are  not  in 
the  judiciary  domain,  where  the  description  of  fact  and  the 


III.] 


SCIENCE  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


195 


judgment  on  the  fact  are  two  distinct  things,  distinct 
for  the  very  simple  reason  that  above  the  fact,  and  in- 
dependent of  it,  there  is  a law  promulgated  by  a legislator. 
Here  the  laws  are  internal  to  the  facts  and  relative  to  the 
lines  that  have  been  followed  in  cutting  the  real  into 
distinct  facts.  We  cannot  describe  the  outward  appearance 
of  the  object  without  prejudging  its  inner  nature  and  its 
organization.  Form  is  no  longer  entirely  isolable  from 
matter,  and  he  who  has  begun  by  reserving  to  philos- 
ophy questions  of  principle,  and  who  has  thereby  tried 
to  put  philosophy  above  the  sciences,  as  a “court  of  cassa- 
tion’’ is  above  the  courts  of  assizes  and  of  appeal,  will 
gradually  come  to  make  no  more  of  philosophy  than  a 
registration  court,  charged  at  most  with  w’ording  more 
precisely  the  sentences  that  are  brought  to  it,  pronounced 
and  irrevocable. 

Positive  science  is,  in  fact,  a work  of  pure  intellect. 
Now,  whether  our  conception  of  the  intellect  be  accepted 
or  rejected,  there  is  one  point  on  which  everybody  will 
agree  with  us,  and  that  is  that  the  intellect  is  at  home  in 
the  presence  of  unorganized  matter.  This  matter  it  makes 
use  of  more  and  more  by  mechanical  inventions,  and 
mechanical  inventions  become  the  easier  to  it  the  more  it 
thinks  matter  as  mechanism.  The  intellect  bears  within 
itself,  in  the  form  of  natural  logic,  a latent  geometrism 
that  is  set  free  in  the  measure  and  proportion  that  the 
intellect  penetrates  into  the  inner  nature  of  inert  matter. 
Intelligence  is  in  tune  with  this  matter,  and  that  is  why 
the  physics  and  metaphysics  of  inert  matter  are  so  near 
each  other.  Now,  when  the  intellect  undertakes  the 
study  of  life,  it  necessarily  treats  the  living  like  the  inert, 
applying  the  same  forms  to  this  new  object,  carrying 
over  into  this  new  field  the  same  habits  that  have  succeeded 
so  well  in  the  old ; and  it  is  right  to  do  so,  for  only  on  such 


196 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


terms  does  the  living  offer  to  our  action  the  same  hold  as 
inert  matter.  But  the  truth  we  thus  arrive  at  becomes 
altogether  relative  to  our  faculty  of  action.  It  is  no  more 
than  a symbolic  verity.  It  cannot  have  the  same  value 
as  the  physical  verity,  being  only  an  extension  of  physics 
to  an  object  which  we  are  a 'priori  agreed  to  look  at  only 
in  its  external  aspect.  The  duty  of  philosophy  should  be 
to  intervene  here  actively,  to  examine  the  living  without 
any  reservation  as  to  practical  utility,  by  freeing  itself 
from  Torms  and  habits  that  are  strictly  intellectual. 
Its  own  special  object  is  to  speculate,  that  is  to  say,  to 
see;  its  attitude  toward  the  living  should  not  be  that  of 
science,  which  aims  only  at  action,  and  which,  being  able 
to  act  only  by  means  of  inert  matter,  presents  to  itself 
the  rest  of  reality  in  this  single  respect.  What  must  the 
result  be,  if  it  leave  biological  and  psychological  facts 
to  positive  science  alone,  as  it  has  left,  and  rightly  left, 
physical  facts?  It  will  accept  a priori  a mechanistic 
conception  of  all  nature,  a conception  unreflected  and  even 
unconscious,  the  outcome  of  the  material  need.  It  will 
a priori  accept  the  doctrine  of  the  simple  unity  of  know- 
ledge and  of  the  abstract  unity  of  nature. 

The  moment  it  does  so,  its  fate  is  sealed.  The  philoso- 
pher has  no  longer  any  choice  save  between  a metaphysical 
dogmatism  and  a metaphysical  skepticism,  both  of  which 
rest,  at  bottom,  on  the  same  postulate,  and  neither  of  which 
adds  anything  to  positive  science.  He  may  hypostasize 
the  unity  of  nature,  or,  what  comes  to  the  same  thing, 
the  unity  of  science,  in  a being  v/ho  is  nothing  since  he 
does  nothing,  an  ineffectual  God  who  simply  sums  up  in 
himself  all  the  given;  or  in  an  eternal  Matter  from  whose 
womb  have  been  poured  out  the  properties  of  things  and 
the  laws  of  nature;  or,  again,  in  a pure  Form  which  en- 
deavors to  seize  an  unseizable  multiplicity,  and  which  is. 


SCIENCE  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


197 


m.i 

as  we  will,  the  form  of  nature  or  the  form  of  thought. 
All  these  philosophies  tell  us,  in  their  different  languages, 
that  science  is  right  to  treat  the  living  as  the  inert,  and  that 
there  is  no  difference  of  value,  no  distinction  to  be  made 
between  the  results  which  intellect  arrives  at  in  applying 
its  categories,  whether  it  rests  on  inert  matter  or  attacks 
life. 

In  many  cases,  however,  we  feel  the  frame  cracking. 
But  as  we  did  not  begin  by  distinguishing  between  the 
inert  and  the  living,  the  one  adapted  in  advance  to  the 
frame  in  which  we  insert  it,  the  other  incapable  of  be- 
ing held  in  the  frame  otherwise  than  by  a convention 
which  eliminates  from  it  all  that  is  essential,  we  find  our- 
selves, in  the  end,  reduced  to  regarding  everything  the 
frame  contains  with  equal  suspicion.  To  a metaphysical 
dogmatism,  which  has  erected  into  an  absolute  the  factitious 
unity  of  science,  there  succeeds  a skepticism  or  a relativism 
that  universalizes  and  extends  to  all  the  results  of  science 
the  artificial  character  of  some  among  them.  So  philosophy 
swings  to  and  fro  between  the  doctrine  that  regards  ab- 
solute reality  as  unknowable  and  that  which,  in  the  idea 
it  gives  us  of  this  reality,  says  nothing  more  than  science 
has  said.  For  having  wished  to  prevent  all  conflict  be- 
tween science  and  philosophy,  we  have  sacrificed  philosophy 
without  any  appreciable  gain  to  science.  And  for  having 
tried  to  avoid  the  seeming  vicious  circle  which  consists 
in  using  the  intellect  to  transcend  the  intellect,  we  find 
ourselves  turning  in  a real  circle,  that  which  consists  in 
laboriously  rediscovering  by  metaphysics  a unity  that  we 
began  by  positing  a priori,  a unity  that  we  admitted  blindly 
and  unconsciously  by  the  very  act  of  abandoning  the  whole 
of  experience  to  science  and  the  whole  of  reality  to  the 
pure  understanding. 

Let  us  begin,  on  the  contrary,  by  tracing  a line  of  de- 


198 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


marcation  between  the  inert  and  the  li\dng.  We  shall 
find  that  the  inert  enters  naturally  into  the  frames  of  the 
intellect,  but  that  the  living  is  adapted  to  these  frames 
only  artificially,  so  that  we  must  adopt  a special  attitude 
towards  it  and  examine  it  with  other  eyes  than  those  of 
positive  science.  Philosophy,  then,  invades  the  domain 
of  experience.  She  busies  herself  with  many  things  which 
hitherto  have  not  concerned  her.  Science,  theory  of  know- 
ledge, ^and  metaphysics  find  themselves  on  the  same  ground. 
At  first  there  may  be  a certain  confusion.  All  three  may 
think  they  have  lost  something.  But  all  three  will  profit 
from  the  meeting. 

Positive  science,  indeed,  may  pride  itself  on  the  uniform 
value  attributed  to  its  affirmations  in  the  whole  field  of 
experience.  But,  if  they  are  all  placed  on  the  same  foot- 
ing, they  are  all  tainted  with  the  same  relativity.  It 
is  not  so,  if  we  begin  by  making  the  distinction  which, 
in  our  view,  is  forced  upon  us.  The  understanding  is 
at  home  in  the  domain  of  unorganized  matter.  On  this 
matter  human  action  is  naturally  exercised;  and  action, 
as  we  said  above,  cannot  be  set  in  motion  in  the  unreal. 
Thus,  of  physics — so  long  as  we  are  considering  only  its 
general  form  and  not  the  particular  cutting  out  of  matter 
in  which  it  is  manifested — we  may  say  that  it  touches 
the  absolute.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  by  accident — chance 
or  convention,  as  you  please — that  science  obtains  a hold 
on  the  living  analogous  to  the  hold  it  has  on  matter.  Here 
the  use  of  conceptual  frames  is  no  longer  natural.  I do  not 
wish  to  say  that  it  is  not  legitimate,  in  the  scientific  mean- 
ing of  the  term.  If  science  is  to  extend  our  action  on 
things,  and  if  we  can  act  only  with  inert  matter  for  in- 
strument, science  can  and  must  continue  to  treat  the 
living  as  it  has  treated  the  inert.  But,  in  doing  so,  it 
must  be  understood  that  the  further  it  penetrates  the 


III.l 


SCIENCE  AND  PHILOSOPHY 


199 


depths  of  life,  the  more  symbolic,  the  more  relative  to 
the  contingencies  of  action,  the  knowledge  it  supplies 
to  us  becomes.  On  this  new  ground  philosophy  ought 
then  to  follow  science,  in  order  to  superpose  on  scientific 
truth  a knowledge  of  another  kind,  which  may  be  called 
metaphysical.  Thus  combined,  all  our  knowledge,  both 
scientific  and  metaphysical,  is  heightened.  In  the  absolute 
we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being.  The  knowledge 
we  possess  of  it  is  incomplete,  no  doubt,  but  not  external 
or  relative.  It  is  reality  itself,  in  the  profoundest  meaning 
of  the  word,  that  we  reach  by  the  combined  and  pro- 
gressive development  of  science  and  of  philosophy. 

Thus,  in  renouncing  the  factitious  unity  which  the 
understanding  imposes  on  nature  from  outside,  we  shall 
perhaps  find  its  true,  inward  and  living  unity.  For  the 
effort  we  make  to  transcend  the  pure  understanding  in- 
troduces us  into  that  more  vast  something  out  of  which 
our  understanding  is  cut,  and  from  which  it  has  detached 
itself.  And,  as  matter  is  determined  by  intelligence,  as 
there  is  between  them  an  evident  agreement,  we  cannot 
make  the  genesis  of  the  one  without  making  the  genesis 
of  the  other.  An  identical  process  must  have  cut  out 
matter  and  the  intellect,  at  the  same  time,  from  a stuff 
that  contained  both.  Into  this  reality  we  shall  get  back 
more  and  more  completely,  in  proportion  as  we  compel 
ourselves  to  transcend  pure  intelligence. 

Let  us  then  concentrate  attention  on  that  which  we 
have  that  is  at  the  same  time  the  most  removed  from 
externality  and  the  least  penetrated  with  intellectuality. 
Let  us  seek,  in  the  depths  of  our  experience,  the  point 
where  we  feel  ourselves  most  intimately  within  our  own 
life.  It  is  into  pure  duration  that  we  then  plunge  back, 
a duration  in  which  the  past,  always  moving  on,  is  swelling 


200 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


unceasingly  with  a present  that  is  absolutely  new.  But; 
at  the  same  time,  we  feel  the  spring  of  our  will  strained 
to  its  utmost  limit.  We  must,  by  a strong  recoil  of  our 
personality  on  itself,  gather  up  our  past  which  is  slipping 
away,  in  order  to  thrust  it,  compact  and  undivided,  into  a 
present  which  it  will  create  by  entering.  Rare  indeed  are 
the  moments  when  we  are  self-possessed  to  this  extent: 
it  is  then  that  our  actions  are  truly  free.  And  even  at 
these  moments  we  do  not  completely  possess  ourselves. 
Our  feeling  of  duration,  I should  say  the  actual  coinciding 
of  ourself  with  itself,  admits  of  degrees.  But  the  more 
the  feeling  is  deep  and  the  coincidence  complete,  the 
more  the  life  in  which  it  replaces  us  absorbs  intellectuality 
by  transcending  it.  For  the  natural  function  of  the  in- 
tellect is  to  bind  like  to  like,  and  it  is  only  facts  that  can 
be  repeated  that  are  entirely  adaptable  to  intellectual 
conceptions.  Now,  our  intellect  does  undoubtedly  grasp 
the  real  moments  of  real  duration  after  they  are  past; 
we  do  so  by  reconstituting  the  new  state  of  consciousness 
out  of  a series  of  views  taken  of  it  from  the  outside,  each 
of  which  resembles  as  much  as  possible  something  already 
known;  in  this  sense  we  may  say  that  the  state  of  con- 
sciousness contains  intellectuality  implicitly.  Yet  the 
state  of  consciousness  overflows  the  intellect;  it  is  indeed 
incommensurable  with  the  intellect,  being  itself  indivisible 
and  new. 

Now  let  us  relax  the  strain,  let  us  interrupt  the  effort 
to  crowd  as  much  as  possible  of  the  past  into  the  present. 
If  the  relaxation  were  complete,  there  would  no  longer 
be  either  memory  or  will — which  amounts  to  saying  that, 
in  fact,  we  never  do  fall  into  this  absolute  passivity,  any 
more  than  we  can  make  ourselves  absolutely  free.  But, 
in  the  limit,  w^e  get  a glimpse  of  an  existence  made  of  a 
present  which  recommences  unceasingly — devoid  of  real 


III.l 


INTELLECT  AND  MATERIALITY 


201 


duration,  nothing  but  the  instantaneous  which  dies  and 
is  born  again  endlessly.  Is  the  existence  of  matter  of 
this  nature?  Not  altogether,  for  analysis  resolves  it  into 
elementary  vibrations,  the  shortest  of  which  are  of  very 
slight  duration,  almost  vanishing,  but  not  nothing.  It 
may  be  presumed,  nevertheless,  that  physical  existence 
inclines  in  this  second  direction,  as  psychical  existence 
in  the  first. 

Behind  “spirituality’^  on  the  one  hand,  and  “materiality” 
with  intellectuality  on  the  other,  there  are  then  two  pro- 
cesses opposite  in  their  direction,  and  we  pass  from  the 
first  to  the  second  by  way  of  inversion,  or  perhaps  even  by 
simple  interruption,  if  it  is  true  that  inversion  and  in- 
terruption are  two  terms  which  in  this  case  must  be  held 
to  be  synonymous,  as  we  shall  show  at  more  length  later 
on.  This  presumption  is  confirmed  when  we  consider 
things  from  the  point  of  view  of  extension,  and  no  longer 
from  that  of  duration  alone. 

The  more  we  succeed  in  making  ourselves  conscious 
of  our  progress  in  pure  duration,  the  more  we  feel  the 
different  parts  of  our  being  enter  into  each  other,  and 
our  whole  personality  concentrate  itself  in  a point,  or 
rather  a sharp  edge,  pressed  against  the  future  and  cutting 
into  it  unceasingly.  It  is  in  this  that  life  and  action  are 
free.  But  suppose  we  let  ourselves  go  and,  instead  of 
acting,  dream.  At  once  the  self  is  scattered;  our  past, 
which  till  then  was  gathered  together  into  the  indivisible 
impulsion  it  communicated  to  us,  is  broken  up  into  a 
thousand  recollections  made  external  to  one  another. 
They  give  up  interpenetrating  in  the  degree  that  they 
become  fixed.  Our  personality  thus  descends  in  the 
direction  of  space.  It  coasts  around  it  continually  in 
sensation.  We  will  not  dwell  here  on  a point  we  have 
studied  elsewhere.  Let  us  merely  recall  that  extension 


202 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


admits  of  degrees,  that  all  sensation  is  extensive  in  a certain 
measure,  and  that  the  idea  of  unextended  sensations, 
artificially  localized  in  space,  is  a mere  view  of  the  mind, 
suggested  by  an  unconscious  metaphysic  much  more 
than  by  psychological  observation. 

No  doubt  we  make  only  the  first  steps  in  the  direction 
of  the  extended,  even  when  we  let  ourselves  go  as  much 
as  we  can.  But  suppose  for  a moment  that  matter  con- 
sists in  this  very  movement  pushed  further,  and  that 
physic^  is  simply  psychics  inverted.  We  shall  now  under- 
stand why  the  mind  feels  at  its  ease,  moves  about  naturally 
in  space,  when  matter  suggests  the  more  distinct  idea  of  it. 
This  space  it  already  possessed  as  an  implicit  idea  in  its 
own  eventual  detendon,  that  is  to  say,  of  its  own  possible 
extendon.  The  mind  finds  space  in  things,  but  could  have 
got  it  without  them  if  it  had  had  imagination  strong  enough 
to  push  the  inversion  of  its  own  natural  movement  to 
the  end.  On  the  other  hand,  we  are  able  to  explain  how 
matter  accentuates  still  more  its  materiafity,  when  viewed 
by  the  mind.  Matter,  at  first,  aided  mind  to  run  dowm  its 
own  incline;  it  gave  the  impulsion.  But,  the  impulsion 
once  received,  mind  continues  its  course.  The  idea  that 
it  forms  of  pure  space  is  only  the  schema  of  the  limit  at 
which  this  movement  would  end.  Once  in  possession  of 
the  form  of  space,  mind  uses  it  like  a net  vfith  meshes 
that  can  be  made  and  unmade  at  will,  which,  thrown 
over  matter,  divides  it  as  the  needs  of  our  action  demand. 
Thus,  the  space  of  our  geometry  and  the  spatiality  of  things 
are  mutually  engendered  by  the  reciprocal  action  and 
reaction  of  two  terms  which  are  essentially  the  same,  but 
which  move  each  in  The  direction  inverse  of  the  other. 
Neither  is  space  so  foreign  to  our  nature  as  we  imagine, 
nor  is  matter  as  completely  extended  in  space  as  our 
senses  and  intellect  represent  it. 


III.] 


INTELLECT  AND  MATERIALITY 


203 


We  have  treated  of  the  first  point  elsewhere.  As  to 
the  second,  we  will  limit  ourselves  to  pointing  out  that 
perfect  spatiality  would  consist  in  a perfect  externality 
of  parts  in  their  relation  to  one  another,  that  is  to  say, 
in  a complete  reciprocal  independence.  Now,  there  is  no 
material  point  that  does  not  act  on  every  other  material 
point.  When  we  observe  that  a thing  really  is  there  where 
it  acts,  we  shall  be  led  to  say  (as  Faradays  was)  that  all 
the  atoms  interpenetrate  and  that  each  of  them  fills  the 
world.  On  such  a hypothesis,  the  atom  or,  more  generally, 
the  material  point,  becomes  simply  a view  of  the  mind, 
a view  which  we  come  to  take  when  we  continue  far  enough 
the  work  (wholly  relative  to  our  faculty  of  acting)  by 
which  we  subdivide  matter  into  bodies.  Yet  it  is  undeniable 
that  matter  lends  itself  to  this  subdivision,  and  that,  in 
supposing  it  breakable  into  parts  external  to  one  another, 
we  are  constructing  a science  sufficiently  representative 
of  the  real.  It  is  undeniable  that  if  there  be  no  entirely 
isolated  system,  yet  science  finds  means  of  cutting  up  the 
universe  into  systems  relatively  independent  of  each  other, 
and  commits  no  appreciable  error  in  doing  so.  What  else 
can  this  mean  but  that  matter  extends  itself  in  space  with- 
out being  absolutely  extended  therein,  and  that  in  regarding 
matter  as  decomposable  into  isolated  systems,  in  attribut- 
ing to  it  quite  distinct  elements  which  change  in  relation  to 
each  other  without  changing  in  themselves  (which  are 
"^displaced,”  shall  we  say,  without  being  “altered”),  in 
short,  in  conferring  on  matter  the  properties  of  pure 
space,  we  are  transporting  ourselves  to  the  terminal  point 
of  the  movement  of  which  matter  simply  indicates  the 
direction? 

What  the  Transcendental  Aesthetic  of  Kant  appears 

1 Faraday,  A Speculation  concerning  Electric  Conduction  (Philosophi- 
cal Magazine,  3d.  series,  vol.  xxiv.). 


204 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  have  established  once  for  all  is  that  extension  is  not 
a material  attribute  of  the  same  kind  as  others.  We 
cannot  reason  indefinitely  on  the  notions  of  heat,  color, 
or  weight:  in  order  to  know  the  modalities  of  weight  or 
of  heat,  we  must  have  recourse  to  experience.  Not  so 
of  the  notion  of  space.  Supposing  even  that  it  is  given 
empirically  by  sight  and  touch  (and  Kant  has  not  questioned 
the  fact)  there  is  this  about  it  that  is  remarkable  that  our 
mind,  ^speculating  on  it  with  its  own  powers  alone,  cuts 
out  in  it,  a 'priori,  figures  whose  properties  we  determine 
a priori:  experience,  with  which  we  have  not  kept  in  touch, 
yet  follows  us  through  the  infinite  complications  of  our 
reasonings  and  invariably  justifies  them.  That  is  the  fact. 
Kant  has  set  it  in  clear  light.  But  the  explanation  of  the 
fact,  we  believe,  must  be  sought  in  a different  direction 
to  that  which  Kant  followed. 

Intelligence,  as  Kant  represents  it  to  us,  is  bathed 
in  an  atmosphere  of  spatiality  to  which  it  is  as  inseparably 
united  as  the  living  body  to  the  air  it  breathes.  Our 
perceptions  reach  us  only  after  having  passed  through 
this  atmosphere.  They  have  been  impregnated  in  ad- 
vance by  our  geometry,  so  that  our  faculty  of  thinking  only 
finds  again  in  matter  the  mathematical  properties  which 
our  faculty  of  perceiving  has  already  deposed  there.  We 
are  assured,  therefore,  of  seeing  matter  yield  itself  with 
docility  to  our  reasonings;  but  this  matter,  in  all  that  it  has 
that  is  intelligible,  is  our  own  work;  of  the  reality  “in 
itself’’  we  know  nothing  and  never  shall  know  anything, 
since  we  only  get  its  refraction  through  the  forms  of  our 
faculty  of  perceiving.  So  that  if  we  claim  to  affirm  some- 
thing of  it,  at  once  There  rises  the  contrary  affirmation, 
equally  demonstrable,  equally  plausible.  The  ideality 
of  space  is  proved  directly  by  the  analysis  of  knowledge 
indirectly  by  the  antinomies  to  which  the  opposite  theory 


III.l 


INTELLECT  AND  MATERIALITY 


205 


leads.  Such  is  the  governing  idea  of  the  Kantian  criticism. 
It  has  inspired  Kant  with  a peremptory  refutation  of 
“empiricist’’  theories  of  knowledge.  It  is,  in  our  opinion, 
definitive  in  what  it  denies.  But,  in  what  it  affirms,  does 
it  give  us  the  solution  of  the  problem? 

With  Kant,  space  is  given  as  a ready-made  form  of 
our  perceptive  faculty — a veritable  deus  ex  machina,  of 
which  we  see  neither  how  it  arises,  nor  why  it  is  what 
it  is  rather  than  anything  else.  “ Things-in-themselves” 
are  also  given,  of  which  he  claims  that  we  can  know  noth- 
ing: by  what  right,  then,  can  he  affirm  their  existence, 
even  as  “problematic”?  If  the  unknowable  reality  pro- 
jects into  our  perceptive  faculty  a “sensuous  manifold” 
capable  of  fitting  into  it  exactly,  is  it  not,  by  that  very 
fact,  in  part  known?  And  when  we  examine  this  exact 
fitting,  shall  we  not  be  led,  in  one  point  at  least,  to  suppose 
a pre-established  harmony  between  things  and  our  mind — 
an  idle  hypothesis,  which  Kant  was  right  in  wishing  to 
avoid?  At  bottom,  it  is  for  not  having  distinguished 
degrees  in  spatiality  that  he  has  had  to  take  space  ready- 
made as  given — whence  the  question  how  the  “sensuous 
manifold”  is  adapted  to  it.  It  is  for  the  same  reason 
that  he  has  supposed  matter  wholly  developed  into  parts 
absolutely  external  to  one  another; — whence  antinomies, 
of  which  we  may  plainly  see  that  the  thesis  and  antithesis 
suppose  the  perfect  coincidence  of  matter  with  geometrical 
space,  but  which  vanish  the  moment  we  cease  to  extend 
to  matter  what  is  true  only  of  pure  space.  Whence, 
finally,  the  conclusion  that  there  are  three  alternatives, 
and  three  only,  among  which  to  choose  a theory  of  know- 
ledge: either  the  mind  is  determined  by  things,  or  things 
are  determined  by  the  mind,  or  between  mind  and  things 
we  must  suppose  a mysterious  agreement. 

But  the  truth  is  that  there  is  a fourth,  which  does  not 


206 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


seem  to  have  occurred  to  Kant — in  the  first  place  because 
he  did  not  think  that  the  mind  overflowed  the  intellect, 
and  in  the  second  place  (and  this  is  at  bottom  the  same  thing) 
because  he  did  not  attribute  to  duration  an  absolute  exist- 
ence, having  put  time,  a priori,  on  the  same  plane  as  space. 
This  alternative  consists,  first  of  all,  in  regarding  the  intel- 
lect as  a special  function  of  the  mind,  essentially  turned 
toward  inert  matter;  then  in  saying  that  neither  does  mat- 
ter determine  the  form  of  the  intellect,  nor  does  the  in- 
tellect impose  its  form  on  matter,  nor  have  matter  and 
intellect  been  regulated  in  regard  to  one  another  by  we 
know  not  what  pre-established  harmony,  but  that  intellect 
and  matter  have  progressively  adapted  themselves  one  to 
the  other  in  order  to  attain  at  last  a common  form.  This 
adaptation  has,  moreover,  been  brought  about  quite  naturally, 
because  it  is  the  same  inversion  of  the  same  movement  which 
creates  at  once  the  intellectuality  of  mind  and  the  materiality 
of  things. 

From  this  point  of  view  the  knowledge  of  matter  that 
our  perception  on  one  hand  and  science  on  the  other 
give  to  us  appears,  no  doubt,  as  approximative,  but  not  as 
relative.  Our  perception,  whose  role  it  is  to  hold  up  a 
light  to  our  actions,  works  a dividing  up  of  matter  that  is 
always  too  sharply  defined,  always  subordinated  to  practi- 
cal needs,  consequently  always  requiring  revision.  Our 
science,  which  aspires  to  the  mathematical  form,  over- 
accentuates the  spatiality  of  matter;  its  formulae  are, 
in  general,  too  precise,  and  ever  need  remaking.  For  a 
scientific  theory  to  be  final,  the  mind  w^ould  have  to  em- 
brace the  totality  of  things  in  block  and  place  each  thing 
in  its  exact  relation  to  every  other  thing;  but  in  reality 
we  are  obliged  to  consider  problems  one  by  one,  in  tenns 
which  are,  for  that  very  reason,  provisional,  so  that  the 
solution  of  each  problem  will  have  to  be  corrected  indefi- 


III.] 


INTELLECT  AND  MATERIALITY 


207 


nitely  by  the  solution  that  will  be  given  to  the  problems 
that  will  follow:  thus,  science  as  a whole  is  relative  to 
the  particular  order  in  which  the  problems  happen  to  have 
been  put.  It  is  in  this  meaning,  and  to  this  degree,  that 
science  must  be  regarded  as  conventional.  But  it  is  a 
conventionality  of  fact  so  to  speak,  and  not  of  right. 
In  principle,  positive  science  bears  on  reality  itself,  pro- 
vided it  does  not  overstep  the  limits  of  its  own  domain, 
which  is  inert  matter. 

Scientific  knowledge,  thus  regarded,  rises  to  a higher 
plane.  In  return,  the  theory  of  knowledge  becomes 
an  infinitely  difficult  enterprise,  and  wffiich  passes  the 
powers  of  the  intellect  alone.  It  is  not  enough  to  deter- 
mine, by  careful  analysis,  the  categories  of  thought; 
we  must  engender  them.  As  regards  space,  w^e  must, 
by  an  effort  of  mind  sui  generis,  follow  the  progression 
or  rather  the  regression  of  the  extra-spatial  degrading 
itself  into  spatiality.  When  we  make  ourselves  self- 
conscious  in  the  highest  possible  degree  and  then  let  our- 
selves fall  back  little  by  little,  we  get  the  feeling  of  ex- 
tension : WT  have  an  extension  of  the  self  into  recollections 
that  are  fixed  and  external  to  one  another,  in  place  of  the 
tension  it  possessed  as  an  indivisible  active  will.  But 
this  is  only  a beginning.  Our  consciousness,  sketching 
the  movement,  shows  us  its  direction  and  reveals  to  us 
the  possibility  of  continuing  it  to  the  end;  but  conscious- 
ness itself  does  not  go  so  far.  Now^,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  we  consider  matter,  which  seems  to  us  at  first  coincident 
with  space,  w^e  find  that  the  more  our  attention  is  fixed 
on  it,  the  more  the  parts  which  we  said  were  laid  side  by 
side  enter  into  each  other,  each  of  them  undergoing  the 
action  of  the  wffiole,  which  is  consequently  somehow  present 
in  it.  Thus,  although  matter  stretches  itself  out  in  the 
direction  of  space,  it  does  not  completely  attain  it;  whence 


208 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


we  may  conclude  that  it  only  carries  very  much  further 
the  movement  that  consciousness  is  able  to  sketch  within 
us  in  its  nascent  state.  We  hold,  therefore,  the  two  ends 
of  the  chain,  though  we  do  not  succeed  in  seizing  the  inter- 
mediate links.  Will. they  always  escape  us?  We  must 
remember  that  philosophy,  as  we  define  it,  has  not  yet  be- 
come completely  conscious  of  itself.  Physics  understands 
its  role  when  it  pushes  matter  in  the  direction  of  spatiality; 
but  has  metaphysics  understood  its  role  when  it  has  simply 
trodden  in  the  steps  of  physics,  in  the  chimerical  hope  of 
going  further  in  the  same  direction?  Should  not  its  owm 
task  be,  on  the  contrary,  to  remount  the  incline  that 
physics  descends,  to  bring  back  matter  to  its  origins,  and 
to  build  up  progressively  a cosmology  which  would  be, 
so  to  speak,  a reversed  psychology?  All  that  which  seems 
'positive  to  the  physicist  and  to  the  geometrician  would 
become,  from  this  new  point  of  view,  an  interruption  or 
inversion  of  the  true  positivity,  which  would  have  to  be 
defined  in  psychological  terms. 

When  we  consider  the  admirable  order  of  mathematics, 
the  perfect  agreement  of  the  objects  it  deals  with,  the 
immanent  logic  in  numbers  and  figures,  our  certainty 
of  always  getting  the  same  conclusion,  howwer  diverse 
and  complex  our  reasonings  on  the  same  subject,  we 
hesitate  to  see  in  properties  apparently  so  positive  a system 
of  negations,  the  absence  rather  than  the  presence  of  a true 
reality.  But  we  must  not  forget  that  our  intellect,  which 
finds  this  order  and  wonders  at  it,  is  directed  in  the  same 
line  of  movement  that  leads  to  the  materiality  and  spatial- 
ity of  its  object.  The  more  complexity  the  intellect  puts 
into  its  object  by  analyzing  it,  the  more  complex  is  the  order 
it  finds  there.  And  this  order  and  this  complexity  neces- 
sarily appear  to  the  intellect  as  a positive  reality,  since 


III.l 


THE  GEOMETRICAL  ORDER 


209 


reality  and  intellectuality  are  turned  in  the  same  direction. 

When  a poet  reads  me  his  verses,  I can  interest  myself 
enough  in  him  to  enter  into  his  thought,  put  myself  into 
his  feelings,  live  over  again  the  simple  state  he  has  broken 
into  phrases  and  words.  I sympathize  then  with  his 
inspiration,  I follow  it  with  a continuous  movement  which 
is,  like  the  inspiration  itself,  an  undivided  act.  Now,  I 
need  only  relax  my  attention,  let  go  the  tension  that  there 
is  in  me,  for  the  sounds,  hitherto  swallowed  up  in  the  sense, 
to  appear  to  me  distinctly,  one  by  one,  in  their  materiality. 
For  this  I have  not  to  do  anything;  it  is  enough  to  withdraw 
something.  In  proportion  as  I let  myself  go,  the  successive 
sounds  will  become  the  more  individualized;  as  the  phrases 
were  broken  into  words,  so  the  words  will  scan  in  syllables 
which  I shall  perceive  one  after  another.  Let  me  go 
farther  still  in  the  direction  of  dream:  the  letters  them- 
selves will  become  loose  and  will  be  seen  to  dance  along, 
hand  in  hand,  on  some  fantastic  sheet  of  paper.  I shall 
then  admire  the  precision  of  the  interweavings,  the  mar- 
velous order  of  the  procession,  the  exact  insertion  of  the 
letters  into  the  syllables,  of  the  syllables  into  the  words  and 
of  the  words  into  the  sentences.  The  farther  I pursue 
this  quite  negative  direction  of  relaxation,  the  more  ex- 
tension and  complexity  I shall  create;  and  the  more  the 
complexity  in  its  turn  increases,  the  more  admirable  will 
seem  to  be  the  order  which  continues  to  reign,  undisturbed, 
among  the  elements.  Yet  this  complexity  and  extension 
represent  nothing  positive;  they  express  a deficiency  of 
will.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  order  must  grow  wfith 
the  complexity,  since  it  is  only  an  aspect  of  it.  The  more 
we  perceive,  symbolically,  parts  in  an  indivisible  whole, 
the  more  the  number  of  the  relations  that  the  parts  have 
between  themselves  necessarily  increases,  since  the  same 
undividedness  of  the  real  whole  continues  to  hover  over 


210 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  growing  multiplicity  of  the  symbolic  elements  into 
which  the  scattering  of  the  attention  has  decomposed 
it.  A comparison  of  this  kind  will  enable  us  to  understand, 
in  some  measure,  how  the  same  suppression  of  positive 
reality,  the  same  inversion  of  a certain  original  movement, 
can  create  at  once  extension  in  space  and  the  admirable 
order  which  mathematics  finds  there.  There  is,  of  course, 
this  difference  between  the  two  cases,  that  words  and  letters 
have  been  invented  by  a positive  effort  of  humanity,  w^hile 
space  arises  automatically,  as  the  remainder  of  a sub- 
traction arises  once  the  two  numbers  are  posited. * But, 
in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other,  the  infinite  complexity 
of  the  parts  and  their  perfect  coordination  among  them- 
selves are  created  at  one  and  the  same  time  by  an  inversion 
wdiich  is,  at  bottom,  an  interruption,  that  is  to  say,  a 
diminution  of  positive  reality. 

All  the  operations  of  our  intellect  tend  to  geometry, 
as  to  the  goal  where  they  find  their  perfect  fulfilment. 

1 Our  comparison  does  no  more  than  develop  the  content  of  the  term 
Xdyos,  as  Plotinus  understands  it.  For  while  the  Xoyos  of  this  phi- 
losopher is  a generating  and  informing  power,  an  aspect  or  a fragment 
of  the  (fjU'/Tj,  on  the  other  hand  Plotinus  sometimes  speaks  of  it  as  of  a 
discourse.  More  generally,  the  relation  that  we  establish  in  the  present 
chapter  between  “extension”  and  “de tension”  resembles  in  some 
aspects  that  which  Plotinus  supposes  (some  developments  of  which 
must  have  inspired  M.  Ravaisson)  when  he  makes  extension  not  indeed 
an  inversion  of  original  Being,  but  an  enfeeblement  of  its  essence,  one 
of  the  last  stages  of  the  procession,  (see  in  particular,  Enn.  IV.  iii.  9-11, 
and  III.  vi.  17-18).  Yet  ancient  philosophy  did  not  see  what  con- 
sequences would  result  from  this  for  mathematics,  for  Plotinus,  like 
Plato,  erected  mathematical  essences  into  absolute  realities.  Above 
all,  it  suffered  itself  to  be  deceived  by  the  purely  superficial  analogy 
of  duration  with  extension.  It  treated  the  one  as  it  treated  the  other, 
regarding  change  as  a degradation  of  immutability,  the  sensible  as  a 
fall  from  the  intelligible.  Whence,  as  we  shall  show  in  the  next  chapter, 
a philosophy  which  fails  to  recognize  the  real  function  and  scope  of  the 
intellect. 


III.l 


THE  GEOMETRICAL  ORDER 


211 


But,  as  geometry  is  necessarily  prior  to  them  (since  these 
operations  have  not  as  their  end  to  construct  space  and 
cannot  do  otherwise  than  take  it  as  given)  it  is  evident 
that  it  is  a latent  geometry,  immanent  in  our  idea  of  space, 
which  is  the  main  spring  of  our  intellect  and  the  cause  of  its 
working.  We  shall  be  convinced  of  this  if  we  consider 
the  two  essential  functions  of  intellect,  the  faculty  of  de- 
duction and  that  of  induction. 

Let  us  begin  with  deduction.  The  same  movement 
by  which  I trace  a figure  in  space  engenders  its  properties : 
they  are  visible  and  tangible  in  the  movement  itself;  I 
feel,  I see  in  space  the  relation  of  the  definition  to  its 
consequences,  of  the  premisses  to  the  conclusion.  All 
the  other  concepts  of  which  experience  suggests  the  idea 
to  me  are  only  in  part  constructible  a priori;  the  definition 
of  them  is  therefore  imperfect,  and  the  deductions  into 
which  these  concepts  enter,  however  closely  the  conclusion 
is  linked  to  the  premisses,  participate  in  this  imperfection. 
But  when  I trace  roughly  in  the  sand  the  base  of  a tri- 
angle, as  I begin  to  form  the  two  angles  at  the  base,  I 
know  positively,  and  understand  absolutely,  that  if  these 
two  angles  are  equal  the  sides  will  be  equal  also,  the  figure 
being  then  able  to  be  turned  over  on  itself  without  there 
being  any  change  whatever.  I know  it  before  I have 
learnt  geometry.  Thus,  prior  to  the  science  of  geometry, 
there  is  a natural  geometry  whose  clearness  and  evidence 
surpass  the  clearness  and  evidence  of  other  deductions. 
Now,  these  other  deductions  bear  on  qualities,  and  not  on 
magnitudes  purely.  They  are,  then,  likely  to  have  been 
formed  on  the  model  of  the  first,  and  to  borrow  their  force 
from  the  fact  that,  behind  quality,  we  see  magnitude 
vaguely  showing  through.  We  may  notice,  as  a fact, 
that  questions  of  situation  and  of  magnitude  are  the  first 
that  present  themselves  to  our  activity,  those  which  in- 


212 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


telligence  externalized  in  action  resolves  even  before 
reflective  intelligence  has  appeared.  The  savage  under- 
stands better  than  the  civilized  man  how  to  judge  distancas, 
to  determine  a direction,  to  retrace  by  memory  the  often 
complicated  plan  of  the  road  he  has  traveled,  and  so  to 
return  in  a straight  line  to  his  starting-point. ‘ If  the 
animal  does  not  deduce  explicitly,  if  he  does  not  form 
explicit  concepts,  neither  does  he  form  the  idea  of  a homo- 
geneous space.  You  cannot  present  this  space  to  your- 
self without  introducing,  in  the  same  act,  a virtual  geometry 
which  will,  of  itself,  degrade  itself  into  logic.  All  the  re- 
pugnance that  philosophers  manifest  towards  this  manner 
of  regarding  things  comes  from  this,  that  the  logical  work 
of  the  intellect  represents  to  their  eyes  a positive  spiritual 
effort.  But,  if  we  understand  by  spirituality  a progress 
to  ever  new  creations,  to  conclusions  incommensurable 
with  the  premisses  and  indeterminable  by  relation  to  them, 
we  must  say  of  an  idea  that  moves  among  relations  of 
necessary  determination,  through  premisses  which  contain 
their  conclusion  in  advance,  that  it  follows  the  inverse 
direction,  that  of  materiality.  What  appears,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  intellect,  as  an  effort,  is  in  itself  a 
letting  go.  And  while,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
intellect,  there  is  a 'petitio  principii  in  making  geometry 
arise  automatically  from  space,  and  logic  from  geometry — 
on  the  contrary,  if  space  is  the  ultimate  goal  of  the  mind^s 
movement  of  detension,  space  cannot  be  given  without 
positing  also  logic  and  geometry,  which  are  along  the  course 
of  the  movement  of  which  pure  spatial  intuition  is  the  goal. 

It  has  not  been  enough  noticed  how  feeble  is  the  reach 
of  deduction  in  the  psychological  and  moral  sciences. 
From  a proposition  verified  by  facts,  verifiable  consequences 
can  here  be  drawn  only  up  to  a certain  point,  only  in  a 
^Bastian,  The  Brain  as  an  Organ  of  the  Mind,  pp.  214-16. 


III.] 


GEOMETRY  AND  DEDUCTION 


213 


certain  measure.  Very  soon  appeal  has  to  be  made  to 
common  sense,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  continuous  experience 
of  the  real,  in  order  to  inflect  the  consequences  deduced 
and  bend  them  along  the  sinuosities  of  life.  Deduction 
succeeds  in  things  moral  only  metaphorically,  so  to  speak, 
and  just  in  the  measure  in  which  the  moral  is  transposable 
into  the  physical,  I should  say  translatable  into  spatial 
symbols.  The  metaphor  never  goes  very  far,  any  more 
than  a curve  can  long  be  confused  with  its  tangent.  Must 
we  not  be  struck  by  this  feebleness  of  deduction  as  some- 
thing very  strange  and  even  paradoxical?  Here  is  a pure 
operation  of  the  mind,  accomplished  solely  by  the  power 
of  the  mind.  It  seems  that,  if  anywhere  it  should  feel 
at  home  and  evolve  at  ease,  it  would  be  among  the  things 
of  the  mind,  in  the  domain  of  the  mind.  Not  at  all; 
it  is  there  that  it  is  immediately  at  the  end  of  its  tether. 
On  the  contrary,  in  geometry,  in  astronomy,  in  physics, 
where  we  have  to  do  with  things  external  to  us,  deduction 
is  all-powerful!  Observation  and  experience  are  un- 
doubtedly necessary  in  these  sciences  to  arrive  at  the 
principle,  that  is,  to  discover  the  aspect  under  which 
things  must  be  regarded;  but,  strictly  speaking,  we  might, 
by  good  luck,  have  hit  upon  it  at  once;  and,  as  soon  as  we 
possess  this  principle,  we  may  draw  from  it,  at  any  length, 
consequences  which  experience  will  always  verify.  Must 
we  not  conclude,  therefore,  that  deduction  is  an  operation 
governed  by  the  properties  of  matter,  molded  on  the 
mobile  articulations  of  matter,  implicitly  given,  in  fact, 
with  the  space  that  underlies  matter?  As  long  as  it  turns 
upon  space  or  spatialized  time,  it  has  only  to  let  itself 
go.  It  is  duration  that  puts  spokes  in  its  wheels. 

Deduction,  then,  does  not  work  unless  there  be  spatial 
intuition  behind  it.  But  we  may  say  the  same  of  induction. 


214 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


It  is  not  necessary  indeed  to  think  geometrically,  nor  even 
to  think  at  all,  in  order  to  expect  from  the  same  conditions 
a repetition  of  the  same  fact.  The  consciousness  of  the 
animal  already  does  this  work,  and  indeed,  independently 
of  all  consciousness,  the  living  body  itself  is  so  constructed 
that  it  can  extract  from  the  successive  situations  in  which 
it  finds  itself  the  similarities  which  interest  it,  and  so 
respond  to  the  stimuli  by  appropriate  reactions.  But 
it  is  a^far  cry  from  a mechanical  expectation  and  reaction 
of  the  body,  to  induction  properly  so  called,  which  is 
an  intellectual  operation.  Induction  rests  on  the  belief 
that  there  are  causes  and  effects,  and  that  the  same  effects 
follow  the  same  causes.  Now,  if  we  examine  this  double 
belief,  this  is  what  we  find.  It  implies,  in  the  first  place, 
that  reality  is  decomposable  into  groups,  wRich  can  be 
practically  regarded  as  isolated  and  independent.  If  I 
boil  water  in  a kettle  on  a stove,  the  operation  and  the 
objects  that  support  it  are,  in  reality,  bound  up  with  a 
multitude  of  other  objects  and  a multitude  of  other  oper- 
ations; in  the  end,  I should  find  that  our  entire  solar 
system  is  concerned  in  what  is  being  done  at  this  particular 
point  of  space.  But,  in  a certain  measure,  and  for  the 
special  end  I am  pursuing,  I may  admit  that  things  happen 
as  if  the  group  water-kettle-stove  were  an  independent 
microcosm.  That  is  my  first  affirmation.  Now,  when  I 
say  that  this  microcosm  will  always  behave  in  the  same 
way,  that  the  heat  will  necessarily,  at  the  end  of  a certain 
time,  cause  the  boiling  of  the  water,  I admit  that  it  is 
sufficient  that  a certain  number  of  elements  of  the  system 
be  given  in  order  that  the  system  should  be  complete; 
it  completes  itself  aiitomatically,  I am  not  free  to  complete 
it  in  thought  as  I please.  The  stove,  the  kettle  and  the 
water  being  given,  with  a certain  interval  of  duration, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  boiling,  which  experience  showed 


III.] 


GEOMETRY  AND  INDUCTION 


215 


me  yesterday  to  be  the  only  thing  wanting  to  complete 
the  system,  will  complete  it  to-morrow,  no  matter  when 
to-morrow  may  be.  What  is  there  at  the  base  of  this 
belief?  Notice  that  the  belief  is  more  or  less  assured, 
according  as  the  case  may  be,  but  that  it  is  forced  upon  the 
mind  as  an  absolute  necessity  when  the  microcosm  con- 
sidered contains  only  magnitudes.  If  two  numbers  be 
given,  I am  not  free  to  choose  their  difference.  If  two 
sides  of  a triangle  and  the  contained  angle  are  given,  the 
third  side  arises  of  itself  and  the  triangle  completes  itself 
automatically.  I can,  it  matters  not  where  and  it  matters 
not  when,  trace  the  same  two  sides  containing  the  same 
angle:  it  is  evident  that  the  new  triangles  so  formed  can  be 
superposed  on  the  first,  and  that  consequently  the  same 
third  side  will  come  to  complete  the  system.  Now,  if 
my  certitude  is  perfect  in  the  case  in  which  I reason  on 
pure  space  determinations,  must  I not  suppose  that,  in 
the  other  cases,  the  certitude  is  greater  the  nearer  it  ap- 
proaches this  extreme  case?  Indeed,  may  it  not  be 
the  limiting  case  which  is  seen  through  all  the  others 
and  which  colors  them,  accordingly  as  they  are  more  or 
less  transparent,  with  a more  or  less  pronounced  tinge 
of  geometrical  necessity?^  In  fact,  when  I say  that 
the  water  on  the  fire  will  boil  to-day  as  it  did  yesterday, 
and  that  this  is  an  absolute  necessity,  I feel  vaguely  that 
my  imagination  is  placing  the  stove  of  yesterday  on  that 
of  to-day,  kettle  on  kettle,  water  on  water,  duration  on 
duration,  and  it  seems  then  that  the  rest  must  coincide 
also,  for  the  same  reason  that,  when  two  triangles  are 
superposed  and  two  of  their  sides  coincide,  their  third 
sides  coincide  also.  But  my  imagination  acts  thus  only 
because  it  shuts  its  eyes  to  two  essential  points.  For  the 

^ We  have  dwelt  on  this  point  in  a former  work.  See  the  Essai  sur  les 
donnees  immediates  de  la  conscience,  Paris,  1889,  pp.  155-160. 


21G 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


system  of  to-day  actually  to  be  superimposed  on  that  of 
yesterday,  the  latter  must  have  waited  for  the  former, 
time  must  have  halted,  and  everything  become  simultane- 
ous: that  happens  in  geometry,  but  in  geometry  alone. 
Induction  therefore  implies  first  that,  in  the  world  of  the 
physicist  as  in  that  of  the  geometrician,  time  does  not 
count.  But  it  implies  also  that  qualities  can  be  superposed 
on  each  other  like  magnitudes.  If,  in  imagination,  I 
place  the  stove  and  fire  of  to-day  on  that  of  yesterday,  I 
find  indeed  that  the  form  has  remained  the  same;  it  suffices, 
for  that,  that  the  surfaces  and  edges  coincide;  but  what 
is  the  coincidence  of  two  qualities,  and  how  can  they  be 
superposed  one  on  another  in  order  to  ensure  that  they 
are  identical?  Yet  I extend  to  the  second  order  of  reality 
all  that  applies  to  the  first.  The  physicist  legitimates 
this  operation  later  on  by  reducing,  as  far  as  possible, 
differences  of  quality  to  differences  of  magnitude;  but, 
prior  to  all  science,  I incline  to  liken  qualities  to  quantities, 
as  if  I perceived  behind  the  qualities,  as  through  a trans- 
parency, a geometrical  mechanism.^  The  more  complete 
this  transparency,  the  more  it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  same 
conditions  there  must  be  a repetition  of  the  same  fact. 
Our  inductions  are  certain,  to  our  eyes,  in  the  exact  degree 
in  which  we  make  the  qualitative  differences  melt  into 
the  homogeneity  of  the  space  which  subtends  them, 
so  that  geometry  is  the  ideal  limit  of  our  inductions  as 
well  as  of  our  deductions.  The  movement  at  the  end  of 
which  is  spatiality  lays  down  along  its  course  the  faculty 
of  induction  as  well  as  that  of  deduction,  in  fact,  intel- 
lectuality entire. 

It  creates  them  in  the  mind.  But  it  creates  also,  in 
things,  the  “order’^  which  our  induction,  aided  by  de- 
^Op.  cit.  chaps,  i.  and  ii.  passim. 


III.l 


PHYSICAL  LAWS 


217 


duction,  finds  there.  This  order,  on  which  our  action 
leans  and  in  which  our  intellect  recognizes  itself,  seems  to 
us  marvelous.  Not  only  do  the  same  general  causes  al- 
ways produce  the  same  general  effects,  but  beneath  the 
visible  causes  and  effects  our  science  discovers  an  infinity 
of  infinitesimal  changes  which  work  more  and  more  exactly 
into  one  another,  the  further  we  push  the  analysis:  so 
much  so  that,  at  the  end  of  this  analysis,  matter  becomes, 
it  seems  to  us,  geometry  itself.  Certainly,  the  intellect 
is  right  in  admiring  here  the  growing  order  in  the  growing 
complexity;  both  the  one  and  the  other  must  have  a 
positive  reality  for  it,  since  it  looks  upon  itself  as  positive. 
But  things  change  their  aspect  when  we  consider  the  whole 
of  reality  as  an  undivided  advance  forward  to  successive 
creations.  It  seems  to  us,  then,  that  the  complexity  of 
the  material  elements  and  the  mathematical  order  that 
binds  them  together  must  arise  automatically  when  within 
the  whole  a partial  interruption  or  inversion  is  produced. 
Moreover,  as  the  intellect  itself  is  cut  out  of  mind  by  a 
process  of  the  same  kind,  it  is  attuned  to  this  order  and 
complexity,  and  admires  them  because  it  recognizes 
itself  in  them.  But  what  is  admirable  in  itself,  what  really 
deserves  to  provoke  wonder,  is  the  ever-renewed  creation 
which  reality,  whole  and  undivided,  accomplishes  in  ad- 
vancing; for  no  complication  of  the  mathematical  order 
with  itself,  however  elaborate  we  may  suppose  it,  can  in- 
troduce an  atom  of  novelty  into  the  world,  whereas  this 
power  of  creation  once  given  (and  it  exists,  for  we  are 
conscious  of  it  in  ourselves,  at  least  when  we  act  freely) 
has  only  to  be  diverted  from  itself  to  relax  its  tension,  only 
to  relax  its  tension  to  extend,  only  to  extend  for  the  mathe- 
matical order  of  the  elements  so  distinguished  and  the  in- 
flexible determinism  connecting  them  to  manifest  the  inter- 
ruption of  the  creative  act:  in  fact,  inflexible  determinism 


218 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


and  mathematical  order  are  one  with  this  very  interruption. 

It  is  this  merely  negative  tendency  that  the  particular 
laws  of  the  physical  world  express.  None  of  them,  taken 
separately,  has  objective  reality;  each  is  the  work  of  an 
investigator  who  has  regarded  things  from  a certain  bias, 
isolated  certain  variables,  applied  certain  conventional 
units  of  measurement.  And  yet  there  is  an  order  ap- 
proximately mathematical  immanent  in  matter,  an  ob- 
jective order,  which  our  science  approaches  in  proportion 
to  its  progress.  For  if  matter  is  a relaxation  of  the  in- 
extensive  into  the  extensive  and,  thereby,  of  liberty  into 
necessity,  it  does  not  indeed  wholly  coincide  with  pure 
homogeneous  space,  yet  is  constituted  by  the  movement 
which  leads  to  space,  and  is  therefore  on  the  way  to  ge- 
ometry. It  is  true  that  laws  of  mathematical  form  will 
never  apply  to  it  completely.  For  that,  it  would  have  to  be 
pure  space  and  step  out  of  duration. 

We  cannot  insist  too  strongly  that  there  is  something 
artificial  in  the  mathematical  form  of  a physical  law, 
and  consequently  in  our  scientific  knowledge  of  things.^ 
Our  standards  of  measurement  are  conventional,  and, 
so  to  say,  foreign  to  the  intentions  of  nature:  can  we 
suppose  that  nature  has  related  all  the  modalities  of  heat 
to  the  expansion  of  the  same  mass  of  mercury,  or  to  the 
change  of  pressure  of  the  same  mass  of  air  kept  at  a 
constant  volume?  But  we  may  go  further.  In  a general 
way,  measuring  is  a wholly  human  operation,  which 
implies  that  we  really  or  ideally  superpose  two  objects 
one  on  another  a certain  number  of  times.  Nature  did 
not  dream  of  this  superposition.  It  does  not  measure, 
nor  does  it  count.  Yet  physics  counts,  measures,  re- 
lates ^‘quantitative’'  variations  to  one  another  to  obtain 
laws,  and  it  succeeds.  Its  success  would  be  inexplicable, 

* Cf.  especially  the  profound  studies  of  M.  Ed.  Le  Roy  in  the  Revtie 
de  mitaph.  et  de  morale. 


III.] 


PHYSICAL  LAWS 


219 


if  the  movement  which  constitutes  materiality  were  not 
the  same  movement  which,  prolonged  by  us  to  its  end, 
that  is  to  say,  to  homogeneous  space,  results  in  making 
us  count,  measure,  follow  in  their  respective  variations  terms 
that  are  functions  one  of  another.  To  effect  this  prolong- 
ation of  the  movement,  our  intellect  has  only  to  let  itself 
go,  for  it  runs  naturally  to  space  and  mathematics,  in- 
tellectuality and  materiality  being  of  the  same  nature  and 
having  been  produced  in  the  same  way. 

If  the  mathematical  order  were  a positive  thing,  if 
there  were,  immanent  in  matter,  laws  comparable  to 
those  of  our  codes,  the  success  of  our  science  would  have 
in  it  something  of  the  miraculous.  What  chances  should 
we  have  indeed  of  finding  the  standard  of  nature  and  of 
isolating  exactly,  in  order  to  determine  their  reciprocal 
relations,  the  very  variables  which  nature  has  chosen? 
But  the  success  of  a science  of  mathematical  form  would 
be  no  less  incomprehensible,  if  matter  did  not  already 
possess  everything  necessary  to  adapt  itself  to  our  formulae. 
One  hypothesis  only,  therefore,  remains  plausible,  namely, 
that  the  mathematical  order  is  nothing  positive,  that  it 
is  the  form  toward  which  a certain  interruption  tends  of 
itself,  and  that  materiality  consists  precisely  in  an  inter- 
ruption of  this  kind.  We  shall  understand  then  why  our 
science  is  contingent,  relative  to  the  variables  it  has  chosen, 
relative  to  the  order  in  which  it  has  successively  put  the 
problems,  and  why  nevertheless  it  succeeds.  It  might 
have  been,  as  a whole,  altogether  different,  and  yet  have 
succeeded.  This  is  so,  just  because  there  is  no  definite 
system  of  mathematical  laws,  at  the  base  of  nature,  and 
because  mathematics  in  general  represents  simply  the  side  to 
which  matter  inclines.  Put  one  of  those  little  cork  dolls 
with  leaden  feet  in  any  posture,  lay  it  on  its  back,  turn 
it  up  on  its  head,  throw  it  into  the  air:  it  will  always 


220 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


stand  itself  up  again,  automatically.  So  likewise  with 
matter:  we  can  take  it  by  any  end  and  handle  it  in  any 
way,  it  will  always  fall  back  into  some  one  of  our  mathe- 
matical formulae,  because  it  is  weighted  with  geometry. 

But  the  philosopher  will  perhaps  refuse  to  found  a 
theory  of  knowledge  on  such  considerations.  They  will 
be  repugnant  to  him,  because  the  mathematical  order, 
being  prder,  will  appear  to  him  to  contain  something 
positive.  It  is  in  vain  that  we  assert  that  this  order 
produces  itself  automatically  by  the  interruption  of  the 
inverse  order,  that  it  is  this  very  interruption.  The  idea 
persists,  none  the  less,  that  there  might  he  no  order  at  oil, 
and  that  the  mathematical  order  of  things,  being  a con- 
quest over  disorder,  possesses  a positive  reality.  In 
examining  this  point,  we  shall  see  what  a prominent 
part  the  idea  of  disorder  plays  in  problems  relative  to 
the  theory  of  knowledge.  It  does  not  appear  explicitly, 
and  that  is  why  it  escapes  our  attention.  It  is,  however, 
with  the  criticism  of  this  idea  that  a theory  of  knowledge 
ought  to  begin,  for  if  the  great  problem  is  to  know  why  and 
how  reality  submits  itself  to  an  order,  it  is  because  the 
absence  of  every  kind  of  order  appears  possible  or  con- 
ceivable. It  is  this  absence  of  order  that  realists  and 
idealists  alike  believe  they  are  thinking  of — the  realist 
when  he  speaks  of  the  regularity  that  '‘objective”  laws 
actually  impose  on  a virtual  disorder  of  nature,  the  idealist 
when  he  supposes  a “sensuous  manifold”  which  is  co- 
ordinated (and  consequently  itself  without  order)  under 
the  organizing  influence  of  our  understanding.  The  idea 
of  disorder,  in  the  sense  of  absence  of  order,  is  then  wYiaX 
must  be  analyzed  first.  Philosophy  borrows  it  from  daily 
life.  And  it  is  unquestionable  that,  when  ordinarily  we  speak 
of  disorder,  we  are  thinking  of  something.  But  of  what? 


III.l 


THE  IDEA  OF  DISORDER 


221 


It  will  be  seen  in  the  next  chapter  how  hard  it  is  to 
determine  the  content  of  a negative  idea,  and  what  illu- 
sions one  is  liable  to,  what  hopeless  difficulties  philosophy 
falls  into,  for  not  having  undertaken  this  task.  Diffi- 
culties and  illusions  are  generally  due  to  this,  that  we 
accept  as  final  a manner  of  expression  essentially  pro- 
visional. They  are  due  to  our  bringing  into  the  domain 
of  speculation  a procedure  made  for  practice.  If  I choose 
a volume  in  my  library  at  random,  I may  put  it  back  on 
the  shelf  after  glancing  at  it  and  say,  ‘‘This  is  not  verse.’^ 
Is  this  what  I have  really  seen  in  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  the  book?  Obviously  not.  I have  not  seen,  I never 
shall  see,  an  absence  of  verse.  I have  seen  prose.  But 
as  it  is  poetry  I want,  I express  what  I find  as  a function 
of  what  I am  looking  for,  and  instead  of  saying,  “This  is 
prose,^^  I say,  “This  is  not  verse.”  In  the  same  way,  if 
the  fancy  takes  me  to  read  prose,  and  I happen  on  a 
volume  of  verse,  I shall  say,  “This  is  not  prose,”  thus  ex- 
pressing the  data  of  my  perception,  which  shows  me  verse, 
in  the  language  of  my  expectation  and  attention,  which 
are  fixed  on  the  idea  of  prose  and  will  hear  of  nothing  else. 
Now,  if  Mons.  Jourdain  heard  me,  he  would  infer,  - no 
doubt,  from  my  two  exclamations  that  prose  and  poetry 
are  two  forms  of  language  reserved  for  books,  and  that  these 
learned  forms  have  come  and  overlaid  a language  which 
was  neither  prose  nor  verse.  Speaking  of  this  thing 
which  is  neither  verse  nor  prose,  he  would  suppose,  more- 
over, that  he  was  thinking  of  it : it  would  be  only  a pseudo- 
idea, however.  Let  us  go  further  still:  the  pseudo- 
idea would  create  a pseudo-problem,  if  M.  Jourdain  were 
to  ask  his  professor  of  philosophy  how  the  prose  form  and 
the  poetry  form  have  been  superadded  to  that  which 
possessed  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  and  if  he  wished 
the  professor  to  construct  a theory  of  the  imposition  of 


222 


CREATIVE  E\^OLUTION 


[CHAP. 


these  two  forms  upon  this  formless  matter.  His  question 
would  be  absurd,  and  the  absurdity  would  lie  in  this,  that 
he  was  hypostasizing  as  the  substratum  of  prose  and  poetry 
the  simultaneous  negation  of  both,  forgetting  that  the 
negation  of  the  one  consists  in  the  affirmation  of  the  other. 

Now,  suppose  that  there  are  two  species  of  order,  and 
that  these  two  orders  are  two  contraries  within  one  and 
the  same  genus.  Suppose  also  that  the  idea  of  disorder 
arises  in  our  mind  whenever,  seeking  one  of  the  two  kinds 
of  order,  we  find  the  other.  The  idea  of  disorder  would 
then  have  a clear  meaning  in  the  current  practice  of  life: 
it  would  objectify,  for  the  convenience  of  language,  the 
disappointment  of  a mind  that  finds  before  it  an  order 
different  from  what  it  wants,  an  order  with  wffiich  it  is  not 
concerned  at  the  moment,  and  wffiich,  in  this  sense,  does 
not  exist  for  it.  But  the  idea  would  not  admit  a theoreti- 
cal use.  So  if  w^e  claim,  notwithstanding,  to  introduce 
it  into  philosophy,  we  shall  inevitably  lose  sight  of  its 
true  meaning.  It  denotes  the  absence  of  a certain  order, 
but  to  the  'profit  of  another  (with  which  w^e  are  not  con- 
cerned); only,  as  it  applies  to  each  of  the  two  in  turn, 
and  as  it  even  goes  and  comes  continually  betw^een  the 
two,  we  take  it  on  the  way,  or  rather  on  the  wing,  like  a 
shuttlecock  between  two  battledores,  and  treat  it  as  if  it 
represented,  not  the  absence  of  the  one  or  other  order  as 
the  case  may  be,  but  the  absence  of  both  together — a thing 
that  is  neither  perceived  nor  conceived,  a simple  verbal 
entity.  So  there  arises  the  problem  how^  order  is  imposed 
on  disorder,  form  on  matter.  In  analyzing  the  idea  of 
disorder  thus  subtilized,  we  shall  see  that  it  represents 
nothing  at  all,  and  at  the  same  time  the  problems  that  have 
been  raised  around  it  will  vanish. 

It  is  true  that  w^e  must  begin  by  distinguishing,  and 
even  by  opposing  one  to  the  other,  two  kinds  of  order 


III.] 


THE  IDEA  OF  DISORDER 


223 


which  we  generally  confuse.  As  this  confusion  has  created 
the  principal  difficulties  of  the  problem  of  knowledge, 
it  will  not  be  useless  to  dwell  once  more  on  the  marks  by 
which  the  two  orders  are  distinguished. 

In  a general  way,  reality  is  ordered  exactly  to  the 
degree  in  which  it  satisfies  our  thought.  Order  is  there- 
fore a certain  agreement  between  subject  and  object. 
It  is  the  mind  finding  itself  again  in  things.  But  the 
mind,  we  said,  can  go  in  two  opposite  ways.  Sometimes 
it  follows  its  natural  direction:  there  is  then  progress  in 
the  form  of  tension,  continuous  creation,  free  activity. 
Sometimes  it  inverts  it,  and  this  inversion,  pushed  to 
the  end,  leads  to  extension,  to  the  necessary  reciprocal 
determination  of  elements  externalized  each  by  relation 
to  the  others,  in  short,  to  geometrical  mechanism.  Now, 
whether  experience  seems  to  us  to  adopt  the  first  direction 
or  whether  it  is  drawn  in  the  direction  of  the  second,  in 
both  cases  we  say  there  is  order,  for  in  the  two  processes 
the  mind  finds  itself  again.  The  confusion  between  them 
is  therefore  natural.  To  escape  it,  different  names  would 
have  to  be  given  to  the  two  kinds  of  order,  and  that  is  not 
easy,  because  of  the  variety  and  variability  of  the  forms 
they  take.  The  order  of  the  second  kind  may  be  defined 
as  geometry,  which  is  its  extreme  limit;  more  generally, 
it  is  that  kind  of  order  that  is  concerned  whenever  a relation 
of  necessary  determination  is  found  between  causes  and 
effects.  It  evokes  ideas  of  inertia,  of  passivity,  of  automa- 
tism. As  to  the  first  kind  of  order,  it  oscillates  no  doubt 
around  finality;  and  yet  we  cannot  define  it  as  finality, 
for  it  is  sometimes  above,  sometimes  below.  In  its  highest 
forms,  it  is  more  than  finality,  for  of  a free  action  or  a work 
of  art  we  may  say  that  they  show  a perfect  order,  and  yet 
they  can  only  be  expressed  in  terms  of  ideas  approximately, 
and  after  the  event.  Life  in  its  entirety,  regarded  as  a 


224 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


creative  evolution,  is  something  analogous;  it  transcends 
finality,  if  we  understand  by  finality  the  realization  of  an 
idea  conceived  or  conceivable  in  advance.  The  category 
of  finality  is  therefore  too  narrow  for  life  in  its  entirety. 
It  is,  on  the  other  hand,  often  too  wide  for  a particular 
manifestation  of  life  taken  separately.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  it  is  with  the  vital  that  w^e  have  here  to  do,  and  the 
whole  present  study  strives  to  prove  that  the  vital  is 
in  the  direction  of  the  voluntary.  We  may  say  then 
that  this  first  kind  of  order  is  that  of  the  vital  or  of  the 
willed,  in  opposition  to  the  second,  w^hich  is  that  of  the 
inert  and  the  automatic.  Common  sense  instinctively 
distinguishes  between  the  two  kinds  of  order,  at  least 
in  the  extreme  cases;  instinctively,  also,  it  brings  them 
together.  We  say  of  astronomical  phenomena  that 
they  manifest  an  admirable  order,  meaning  by  this  that 
they  can  be  foreseen  mathematically.  And  we  find  an 
order  no  less  admirable  in  a symphony  of  Beethoven, 
which  is  genius,  originality,  and  therefore  unforeseeability 
itself. 

But  it  is  exceptional  for  order  of  the  first  kind  to  take 
so  distinct  a form.  Ordinarily,  it  presents  features  that 
we  have  every  interest  in  confusing  wfith  those  of  the 
opposite  order.  It  is  quite  certain,  for  instance,  that 
if  we  could  view  the  evolution  of  life  in  its  entirety,  the 
spontaneity  of  its  movement  and  the  unforeseeability 
of  its  procedures  w^ould  thrust  themselves  on  our  at- 
tention. But  what  we  meet  in  our  daily  experience  is  a 
certain  determinate  living  being,  certain  special  mani- 
festations of  life,  which  repeat,  almost,  forms  and  facts 
already  known;  indeed,  the  similarity  of  structure  that  we 
find  everywhere  between  what  generates  and  what  is 
generated — a similarity  that  enables  us  to  include  any 
number  of  living  individuals  in  the  same  group — is  to  our 


k 


III.l 


LAWS  AND  GENERA 


225 


eyes  the  very  type  of  the  generic:  the  inorganic  genera 
seem  to  us  to  take  living  genera  as  models.  Thus  the 
vital  order,  such  as  it  is  offered  to  us  piecemeal  in  experi- 
ence, presents  the  same  character  and  performs  the  same 
function  as  the  physical  order:  both  cause  experience  to 
re'peat  itself,  both  enable  our  mind  to  generalize.  In  reality, 
this  character  has  entirely  different  origins  in  the  two 
cases,  and  even  opposite  meanings.  In  the  second  case, 
the  type  of  this  character,  its  ideal  limit,  as  also  its  founda- 
tion, is  the  geometrical  necessity  in  virtue  of  wLich  the 
same  components  give  the  same  resultant.  In  the  first 
case,  this  character  involves,  on  the  contrary,  the  interven- 
tion of  something  which  manages  to  obtain  the  same 
total  effect  although  the  infinitely  complex  elementary 
causes  may  be  quite  different.  We  insisted  on  this  last 
point  in  our  first  chapter,  when  we  showed  how  identical 
structures  are  to  be  met  with  on  independent  lines  of  evo- 
lution. But,  without  looking  so  far,  we  may  presume 
that  the  reproduction  only  of  the  type  of  the  ancestor 
by  his  descendants  is  an  entirely  different  thing  from  the 
repetition  of  the  same  composition  of  forces  which  yields 
an  identical  resultant.  When  we  think  of  the  infinity 
of  infinitesimal  elements  and  of  infinitesimal  causes  that 
concur  in  the  genesis  of  a living  being,  when  we  reflect 
that  the  absence  or  the  deviation  of  one  of  them  would 
spoil  everything,  the  first  impulse  of  the  mind  is  to  consider 
this  army  of  little  workers  as  watched  over  by  a skilled 
foreman,  the  “vital  principle,”  which  is  ever  repairing 
faults,  correcting  effects  of  neglect  or  absentmindedness, 
putting  things  back  in  place : this  is  how  we  try  to  express 
the  difference  between  the  physical  and  the  vital  order, 
the  former  making  the  same  combination  of  causes  give 
the  same  combined  effect,  the  latter  securing  the  con- 
stancy of  the  effect  even  when  there  is  some  wavering 


22G 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  the  causes.  But  that  is  only  a comparison;  on  re- 
flection, we  And  that  there  can  be  no  foreman,  for  the 
very  simple  reason  that  there  are  no  workers.  The  causes 
and  elements  that  physico-chemical  analysis  discovers 
are  real  causes  and  elements,  no  doubt,  as  far  as  the  facts 
of  organic  destruction  are  concerned;  they  are  then 
limited  in  number.  But  vital  phenomena,  properly  so 
called,  or  facts  of  organic  creation  open  up  to  us,  when  we 
analyze'^them,  the  perspective  of  an  analysis  passing  aw^ay 
to  infinity:  whence  it  may  be  inferred  that  the  manifold 
causes  and  elements  are  here  only  views  of  the  mind,  at- 
tempting an  ever  closer  and  closer  imitation  of  the  operation 
of  nature,  while  the  operation  imitated  is  an  indivisible 
act.  The  likeness  between  individuals  of  the  same  species 
has  thus  an  entirely  different  meaning,  an  entirely  different 
origin,  to  that  of  the  likeness  between  complex  effects  ob- 
tained by  the  same  composition  of  the  same  causes.  But 
in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other,  there  is  likeness,  and 
consequently  possible  generalization.  And  as  that  is 
all  that  interests  us  in  practice,  since  our  daily  life  is  and 
must  be  an  expectation  of  the  same  things  and  the  same 
situations,  it  is  natural  that  this  common  character, 
essential  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  action,  should  bring 
the  two  orders  together,  in  spite  of  a merely  internal 
diversity  between  them  which  interests  speculation  only. 
Hence  the  idea  of  a general  order  of  nature,  everywhere  the 
same,  hovering  over  life  and  over  matter  alike.  Hence 
our  habit  of  designating  by  the  same  word  and  represent- 
ing in  the  same  way  the  existence  of  laws  in  the  domain 
of  inert  matter  and  that  of  genera  in  the  domain  of  life. 

Now,  it  will  be  found  that  this  confusion  is  the  origin 
of  most  of  the  difficulties  raised  by  the  problem  of  know- 
ledge, among  the  ancients  as  well  as  among  the  moderns. 
The  generality  of  laws  and  that  of  genera  ha\ing  been 


III.l 


LAWS  AND  GENERA 


227 


designated  by  the  same  word  and  subsumed  under  the  same 
idea,  the  geometrical  order  and  the  vital  order  are  accord- 
ingly confused  together.  According  to  the  point  of  view, 
the  generality  of  laws  is  explained  by  that  of  genera,  or 
that  of  genera  by  that  of  law^s.  The  first  view  is  character- 
istic of  ancient  thought;  the  second  belongs  to  modern 
philosophy.  But  in  both  ancient  and  modern  philosophy 
the  idea  of  generality’^  is  an  equivocal  idea,  uniting  in  its 
denotation  and  in  its  connotation  incompatible  objects 
and  elements.  In  both  there  are  grouped  under  the  same 
concept  two  kinds  of  order  which  are  alike  only  in  the 
facility  they  give  to  our  action  on  things.  We  bring 
together  the  two  terms  in  virtue  of  a quite  external  like- 
ness, which  justifies  no  doubt  their  designation  by  the 
same  word  for  practice,  but  which  does  not  authorize 
us  at  all,  in  the  speculative  domain,  to  confuse  them  in 
the  same  definition. 

The  ancients,  indeed,  did  not  ask  why  nature  submits 
to  laws,  but  why  it  is  ordered  according  to  genera.  The 
idea  of  genus  corresponds  more  especially  to  an  objective 
reality  in  the  domain  of  life,  wLere  it  expresses  an  un- 
questionable fact,  heredity.  Indeed,  there  can  only  be 
genera  where  there  are  individual  objects;  now,  while 
the  organized  being  is  cut  out  from  the  general  mass  of 
matter  by  his  very  organization,  that  is  to  say  naturally, 
it  is  our  perception  which  cuts  inert  matter  into  distinct 
bodies.  It  is  guided  in  this  by  the  interests  of  action, 
by  the  nascent  reactions  that  our  body  indicates — that  is, 
as  we  have  shown  elsewhere,^  by  the  potential  genera 
that  are  trying  to  gain  existence.  In  this,  then,  genera 
and  individuals  determine  one  another  by  a semi-artificial 
operation  entirely  relative  to  our  future  action  on  things. 
Nevertheless  the  ancients  did  not  hesitate  to  put  all  genera 

> Matiere  et  memoir e,  chapters  iii.  and  iv. 


228 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  the  same  rank,  to  attribute  the  same  absolute  existence 
to  all  of  them.  Reality  thus  being  a system  of  genera, 
it  is  to  the  generality  of  the  genera  (that  is,  in  effect,  to 
the  generality  expressive  of  the  vital  order)  that  the 
generality  of  laws  itself  had  to  be  brought.  It  is  interest- 
ing, in  this  respect,  to  compare  the  Aristotelian  theory 
of  the  fall  of  bodies  with  the  explanation  furnished  by 
Galileo.  Aristotle  is  concerned  solely  with  the  concepts 
“high^'  and  “low,’^  “own  proper  place”  as  distinguished 
from  “place  occupied,”  “natural  movement”  and  “forced 
movement the  physical  law  in  virtue  of  which  the  stone 
falls  expresses  for  him  that  the  stone  regains  the  “natural 
place”  of  all  stones,  to  wit,  the  earth.  The  stone,  in  his 
view,  is  not  quite  stone  so  long  as  it  is  not  in  its  normal 
place;  in  falling  back  into  this  place  it  aims  at  complet- 
ing itself,  like  a living  being  that  grows,  thus  realizing 
fully  the  essence  of  the  genus  stone.*  If  this  concep- 
tion of  the  physical  law  were  exact,  the  law  would  no 
longer  be  a mere  relation  established  by  the  mind;  the 
subdivision  of  matter  into  bodies  would  no  longer  be 
relative  to  our  faculty  of ’perceiving;  all  bodies  would 
have  the  same  individuality  as  living  bodies,  and  the 
laws  of  the  physical  universe  would  express  relations 
of  real  kinship  between  real  genera.  We  know  what 
kind  of  physics  grew  out  of  this,  and  how,  for  having 
believed  in  a science  unique  and  final,  embracing  the 
totality  of  the  real  and  at  one  with  the  absolute,  the 
ancients  were  confined,  in  fact,  to  a more  or  less  clumsy 
interpretation  of  the  physical  in  terms  of  the  vital. 

But  there  is  the  same  confusion  in  the  moderns,  with 
this  difference,  however,  that  the  relation  between  the 

‘ See  in  particular,  Phys.,  iv.  215  a 2;  v.  230  b 12;  viii.  255  a 2;  and 
De  Caelo,  iv.  1-5;  ii.  296  b 27;  iv.  308  a 34. 

2 De  Caelo,  iv.  310  a 34  to  eh  rbv  auTOU  totiov  (pepedai  eKaozov  to 
eh  TO  auzou  eld 6s  laze  (p^peodac. 


III.l 


LAWS  AND  GENERA 


229 


two  terms  is  inverted : laws  are  no  longer  reduced  to  genera, 
but  genera  to  laws;  and  science,  still  supposed  to  be 
uniquely  one,  becomes  altogether  relative,  instead  of 
being,  as  the  ancients  wished,  altogether  at  one  with 
the  absolute.  A noteworthy  fact  is  the  eclipse  of  the 
problem  of  genera  in  modern  philosophy.  Our  theory 
of  knowledge  turns  almost  entirely  on  the  question  of 
laws:  genera  are  left  to  make  shift  with  laws  as  best 
they  can.  The  reason  is,  that  modern  philosophy  has 
its  point  of  departure  in  the  great  astronomical  and  physical 
discoveries  of  modern  times.  The  laws  of  Kepler  and  of 
Galileo  have  remained  for  it  the  ideal  and  unique  type 
of  all  knowledge.  Now,  a law  is  a relation  between  things 
or  between  facts.  More  precisely,  a law  of  mathematical 
form  expresses  the  fact  that  a certain  magnitude  is  a 
function  of  one  or  several  other  variables  appropriately 
chosen.  Now,  the  choice  of  the  variable  magnitudes, 
the  distribution  of  nature  into  objects  and  into  facts,  has 
already  something  of  the  contingent  and  the  conventional. 
But,  admitting  that  the  choice  is  hinted  at,  if  not  prescribed, 
by  experience,  the  law  remains  none  the  less  a relation, 
and  a relation  is  essentially  a comparison;  it  has  objective 
reality  only  for  an  intelligence  that  represents  to  itself 
several  terms  at  the  same  time.  This  intelligence  may  be 
neither  mine  nor  yours : a science  which  bears  on  laws  may 
therefore  be  an  objective  science,  which  experience  con- 
tains in  advance  and  which  we  simply  make  it  disgorge; 
but  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  a comparison  of  some  kind 
must  be  effected  here,  impersonally  if  not  by  any  one 
in  particular,  and  that  an  experience  made  of  laws,  that 
is,  of  terms  related  to  other  terms,  is  an  experience  made  of 
comparisons,  which,  before  we  receive  it,  has  already  had  to 
pass  through  an  atmosphere  of  intellectuality.  The  idea 
of  a science  and  of  an  experience  entirely  relative  to  the 


230 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


human  understanding  v/as  therefore  implicitly  contained 
in  the  conception  of  a science  one  and  integral,  composed 
of  laws:  Kant  only  brought  it  to  light.  But  this  con- 
ception is  the  result  of  an  arbitrary  confusion  between  the 
generality  of  laws  and  that  of  genera.  Though  an  in- 
telligence be  necessary  to  condition  terms  by  relation  to 
each  other,  we  may  conceive  that  in  certain  cases  the  terms 
themselves  may  exist  independently.  And  if,  beside 
relations  of  term  to  term,  experience  also  presents  to  us 
independent  terms,  the  living  genera  being  something 
quite  different  from  systems  of  laws,  one  half,  at  least, 
of  our  knowledge  bears  on  the  “thing-in-itself,”  the  very 
reality.  This  knowledge  may  be  very  difficult,  just  be- 
cause it  no  longer  builds  up  its  own  object  and  is  obliged, 
on  the  contrary,  to  submit  to  it ; but,  however  little  it  cuts 
into  its  object,  it  is  into  the  absolute  itself  that  it  bites. 
We  may  go  further:  the  other  half  of  knowledge  is  no 
longer  so  radically,  so  definitely  relative  as  certain  philoso- 
phers say,  if  we  can  establish  that  it  bears  on  a reality 
of  inverse  order,  a reality  which  we  always  express  in 
mathematical  laws,  that  is  to  say  in  relations  that  imply 
comparisons,  but  which  lends  itself  to  this  work  only 
because  it  is  weighted  with  spatiality  and  consequently 
with  geometry.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  the  confusion  of 
two  kinds  of  order  that  lies  behind  the  relativism  of  the 
moderns,  as  it  lay  behind  the  dogmatism  of  the  ancients. 

We  have  said  enough  to  mark  the  origin  of  this  con- 
fusion. It  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  “vitaF'  order,  which 
is  essentially  creation,  is  manifested  to  us  less  in  its  essence 
than  in  some  of  its  accidents,  those  which  imitate  the 
physical  and  geometrical  order;  like  it,  they  present  to 
us  repetitions  that  make  generalization  possible,  and  in 
that  we  have  all  that  interests  us.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  life  as  a whole  is  an  evolution,  that  is,  an  unceasing 


III.l 


LAWS  AND  GENERA 


231 


transformation.  But  life  can  progress  only  by  means  of 
the  living,  which  are  its  depositaries.  Innumerable  living 
beings,  almost  alike,  have  to  repeat  each  other  in  space 
and  in  time  for  the  novelty  they  are  working  out  to  grow 
and  mature.  It  is  like  a book  that  advances  towards  a 
new  edition  by  going  through  thousands  of  reprints  with 
thousands  of  copies.  There  is,  however,  this  difference 
between  the  two  cases,  that  the  successive  impressions 
are  identical,  as  well  as  the  simultaneous  copies  of  the 
same  impression,  whereas  representatives  of  one  and 
the  same  species  are  never  entirely  the  same,  either  in 
different  points  of  space  or  at  different  moments  of  time. 
Heredity  does  not  only  transmit  characters;  it  tran&mits 
also  the  impetus  in  virtue  of  which  the  characters  are 
modified,  and  this  impetus  is  vitality  itself.  That  is  why 
w^e  say  that  the  repetition  which  serves  as  the  base  of  our 
generalizations  is  essential  in  the  physical  order,  accidental 
in  the  vital  order.  The  physical  order  is  “automatic;” 
the  vital  order  is,  I will  not  say  voluntary,  but  analogous 
to  the  order  “willed.” 

Now,  as  soon  as  we  have  clearly  distinguished  be- 
tween the  order  that  is  “willed”  and  the  order  that  is 
“automatic,”  the  ambiguity  that  underlies  the  idea  of 
disorder  is  dissipated,  and,  with  it,  one  of  the  principal 
difficulties  of  the  problem  of  knowdedge. 

The  main  problem  of  the  theory  of  knowledge  is  to 
know  how  science  is  possible,  that  is  to  say,  in  effect, 
why  there  is  order  and  not  disorder  in  things.  That 
order  exists  is  a fact.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  disorder, 
which  appears  to  us  to  he  less  than  order,  is,  it  seems,  of 
right.  The  existence  of  order  is  then  a mystery  to  be 
cleared  up,  at  any  rate  a problem  to  be  solved.  More 
simply,  when  we  undertake  to  found  order,  we  regard 
it  as  contingent,  if  not  in  things,  at  least  as  viewed  by 


232 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  mind:  of  a thing  that  we  do  not  judge  to  be  contingent 
we  do  not  require  an  explanation.  If  order  did  not  appear 
to  us  as  a conquest  over  something,  or  as  an  addition  to 
something  (which  something  is  thought  to  be  the  “ab- 
sence of  order’’);  ancient  realism  would  not  have  spoken 
of  a “matter”  to  which  the  Idea  superadded  itself,  nor 
would  modern  idealism  have  supposed  a “sensuous  mani- 
fold” that  the  understanding  organizes  into  nature.  Now, 
it  is  unquestionable  that  all  order  is  contingent,  and 
conceived  as  such.  But  contingent  in  relation  to  what? 

The  reply,  to  our  thinking,  is  not  doubtful.  An  order 
is  contingent,  and  seems  so,  in  relation  to  the  inverse 
order,  as  verse  is  contingent  in  relation  to  prose  and  prose 
in  relation  to  verse.  But,  just  as  all  speech  which  is  not 
prose  is  verse  and  necessarily  conceived  as  verse,  just  as 
all  speech  which  is  not  verse  is  prose  and  necessarily  con- 
ceived as  prose,  so  any  state  of  things  that  is  not  one  of 
the  two  orders  is  the  other  and  is  necessarily  conceived  as 
the  other.  But  it  may  happen  that  we  do  not  realize 
what  we  are  actually  thinking  of,  and  perceive  the  idea 
really  present  to  our  mind  only  through  a mist  of  affective 
states.  Any  one  can  be  convinced  of  this  by  considering 
the  use  we  make  of  the  idea  of  disorder  in  daily  life.  When 
I enter  a room  and  pronounce  it  to  be  “in  disorder,”  what 
do  I mean?  The  position  of  each  object  is  explained  by  the 
automatic  movements  of  the  person  who  has  slept  in  the 
room,  or  by  the  efficient  causes,  whatever  they  may  be, 
that  have  caused  each  article  of  furniture,  clothing,  etc., 
to  be  where  it  is:  the  order,  in  the  second  sense  of  the 
word,  is  perfect.  But  it  is  order  of  the  first  kind  that 
I am  expecting,  the  order  that  a methodical  person  con- 
sciously puts  into  his  life,  the  willed  order  and  not  the 
automatic:  so  I call  the  absence  of  this  order  “disorder.” 
At  bottom,  all  there  is  that  is  real,  perceived  and  even 


III.l 


THE  TWO  KINDS  OF  ORDER 


233 


conceived,  in  this  absence  of  one  of  the  two  kinds  of  order, 
is  the  presence  of  the  other.  But  the  second  is  indifferent 
to  me,  / am  interested  only  in  the  first j and  I express  the 
presence  of  the  second  as  a function  of  the  first,  instead 
of  expressing  it,  so  to  speak,  as  a function  of  itself,  by 
saying  it  is  disorder.  Inversely,  when  we  affirm  that  we 
are  imagining  a chaos,  that  is  to  say  a state  of  things  in 
which  the  physical  world  no  longer  obeys  laws,  what  are  we 
thinking  of?  We  imagine  facts  that  appear  and  disappear 
capriciously.  First  we  think  of  the  physical  universe  as 
we  know  it,  with  effects  and  causes  well  proportioned  to 
each  other;  then,  by  a series  of  arbitrary  decrees,  we  aug- 
ment, diminish,  suppress,  so  as  to  obtain  what  we  call 
disorder.  In  reality  we  have  substituted  will  for  the 
mechanism  of  nature;  we  have  replaced  the  “automatic 
order’'  by  a multitude  of  elementary  wills,  just  to  the  extent 
that  we  imagine  the  apparition  or  vanishing  of  phenomena. 
No  doubt,  for  all  these  little  wills  to  constitute  a “willed 
order,”  they  must  have  accepted  the  direction  of  a higher 
will.  But,  on  looking  closely  at  them,  we  see  that  that  is 
just  what  they  do:  our  own  will  is  there,  which  objectifies 
itself  in  each  of  these  capricious  wills  in  turn,  and  takes 
good  care  not  to  connect  the  same  with  the  same,  nor  to 
permit  the  effect  to  be  proportional  to  the  cause — in  fact 
makes  one  simple  intention  hover  over  the  whole  of  the 
elementary  volitions.  Thus,  here  again,  the  absence 
of  one  of  the  two  orders  consists  in  the  presence  of  the 
other.  In  analyzing  the  idea  of  chance,  which  is  closely 
akin  to  the  idea  of  disorder,  we  find  the  same  elements. 
When  the  wholly  mechanical  play  of  the  causes  which  stop 
the  wheel  on  a number  makes  me  win,  and  consequently 
acts  like  a good  genius,  careful  of  my  interests,  or  when 
the  wholly  mechanical  force  of  the  wind  tears  a tile  off 
the  roof  and  throws  it  on  to  my  head,  that  is  to  say  acts  like 


234 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


a bad  genius,  conspiring  against  my  person : in  both  cases 
I find  a mechanism  where  I should  have  looked  for,  where, 
indeed,  it  seems  as  if  I ought  to  have  found,  an  intention. 
That  is  what  I express  in  speaking  of  chance.  And  of  an 
anarchical  world,  in  which  phenomena  succeed  each  other 
capriciously,  I should  say  again  that  it  is  a realm  of  chance, 
meaning  that  I find  before  me  wills,  or  rather  decrees, 
when  what  I am  expecting  is  mechanism.  Thus  is  ex- 
plained the  singular  vacillation  of  the  mind  when  it  tries 
to  defifie  chance.  Neither  efficient  cause  nor  final  cause 
can  furnish  the  definition  sought.  The  mind  swings  to 
and  fro,  unable  to  rest,  between  the  idea  of  an  absence  of 
final  cause  and  that  of  an  absence  of  efficient  cause,  each 
of  these  definitions  sending  it  back  to  the  other.  The 
problem  remains  insoluble,  in  fact,  so  long  as  the  idea  of 
chance  is  regarded  as  a pure  idea,  without  mixture  of  feel- 
ing. But,  in  reality,  chance  merely  objectifies  the  state 
of  mind  of  one  who,  expecting  one  of  the  two  kinds  of 
order,  finds  himself  confronted  with  the  other.  Chance 
and  disorder  are  therefore  necessarily  conceived  as  relative. 
So  if  we  wish  to  represent  them  to  ourselves  as  absolute, 
we  perceive  that  we  are  going  to  and  fro  like  a shuttle 
between  the  two  kinds  of  order,  passing  into  the  one  just 
at  the  moment  at  which  we  might  catch  ourself  in  the 
other,  and  that  the  supposed  absence  of  all  order  is  really 
the  presence  of  both,  with,  besides,  the  swaying  of  a mind 
that  cannot  rest  finally  in  either.  Neither  in  things 
nor  in  our  idea  of  things  can  there  be  any  question  of 
presenting  this  disorder  as  the  substratum  of  order,  since 
it  implies  the  two  kinds  of  order  and  is  made  of  their 
combination. 

But  our  intelligence  is  not  stopped  by  this.  By  a 
simple  sic  jubeo  it  posits  a disorder  which  is  an  ‘‘absence 
of  order.’’  In  so  doing  it  thinks  a word  or  a set  of  words, 


III.l 


THE  TWO  KINDS  OF  ORDER 


235 


nothing  more.  If  it  seeks  to  attach  an  idea  to  the  word, 
it  finds  that  disorder  may  indeed  be  the  negation  of  order, 
but  that  this  negation  is  then  the  implicit  affirmation  of  the 
presence  of  the  opposite  order,  which  we  shut  our  eyes  to 
because  it  does  not  interest  us,  or  which  we  evade  by  deny- 
ing the  second  order  in  its  turn — that  is,  at  bottom,  by 
re-establishing  the  first.  How  can  we  speak,  then,  of  an 
incoherent  diversity  which  an  understanding  organizes? 
It  is  no  use  for  us  to  say  that  no  one  supposes  this  inco- 
herence to  be  realized  or  realizable:  when  we  speak  of  it, 
we  believe  we  are  thinking  of  it;  now,  in  analyzing  the 
idea  actually  present,  v/e  find,  as  we  said  before,  only  the 
disappointment  of  the  mind  confronted  with  an  order  that 
does  not  interest  it,  or  a swaying  of  the  mind  between 
two  kinds  of  order,  or,  finally,  the  idea  pure  and  simple 
of  the  empty  word  that  we  have  created  by  joining  a 
negative  prefix  to  a word  which  itself  signifies  some- 
thing. But  it  is  this  analysis  that  we  neglect  to  make. 
We  omit  it,  precisely  because  it  does  not  occur  to  us  to 
distinguish  two  kinds  of  order  that  are  irreducible  to  one 
another. 

We  said,  indeed,  that  all  order  necessarily  appears 
as  contingent.  If  there  are  two  kinds  of  order,  this  con- 
tingency of  order  is  explained:  one  of  the  forms  is  con- 
tingent in  relation  to  the  other.  Where  I find  the  geo- 
metrical order,  the  vital  was  possible;  where  the  order  is 
vital,  it  might  have  been  geometrical.  But  suppose  that 
the  order  is  everywhere  of  the  same  kind,  and  simply  admits 
of  degrees  which  go  from  the  geometrical  to  the  vital: 
if  a determinate  order  still  appears  to  me  to  be  contingent, 
and  can  no  longer  be  so  by  relation  to  an  order  of  another 
kind,  I shall  necessarily  believe  that  the  order  is  contingent 
by  relation  to  an  absence  of  itself,  that  is  to  say  by  relation 
to  a state  of  things  “in  which  there  is  no  order  at  all.'^ 


236 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


And  this  state  of  things  I shall  believe  that  I am  think- 
ing of,  because  it  is  implied,  it  seems,  in  the  very  con- 
tingency of  order,  which  is  an  unquestionable  fact.  I 
shall  therefore  place  at  the  summit  of  the  hierarchy  the 
vital  order;  then,  as  a diminution  or  lower  complication 
of  it,  the  geometrical  order;  and  finally,  at  the  bottom  of 
all,  an  absence  of  order,  incoherence  itself,  on  which  order 
is  superposed.  This  is  why  incoherence  has  the  effect 
on  me  of  a word  behind  wLich  there  must  be  something 
real,  if  hot  in  things,  at  least  in  thought.  But  if  I observe 
that  the  state  of  things  implied  by  the  contingency  of  a 
determinate  order  is  simply  the  presence  of  the  contrary 
order,  and  if  by  this  very  fact  I posit  two  kinds  of  order, 
each  the  inverse  of  the  other,  I perceive  that  no  inter- 
mediate degrees  can  be  imagined  between  the  two  orders, 
and  that  there  is  no  going  down  from  the  two  orders  to 
the  “incoherent.”  Either  the  incoherent  is  only  a word, 
devoid  of  meaning,  or,  if  I give  it  a meaning,  it  is  on  con- 
dition of  putting  incoherence  midway  between  the  two 
orders,  and  not  below  both  of  them.  There  is  not  first 
the  incoherent,  then  the  geometrical,  then  the  vital; 
there  is  only  the  geometrical  and  the  vital,  and  then,  by  a 
swaying  of  the  mind  between  them,  the  idea  of  the  in- 
coherent. To  speak  of  an  uncoordinated  diversity  to 
which  order  is  superadded  is  therefore  to  commit  a veritable 
'petitio  principii;  for  in  imagining  the  uncoordinated  we 
really  posit  an  order,  or  rather  two. 

This  long  analysis  was  necessary  to  show  how  the  real 
can  pass  from  tension  to  extension  and  from  freedom  to 
mechanical  necessity  by  way  of  inversion.  It  was  not 
enough  to  prove  that  this  relation  between  the  two  terms 
is  suggested  to  us,  at  once,  by  consciousness  and  by  sensible 
experience.  It  was  necessary  to  prove  that  the  geometrical 


m.i 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


237 


order  has  no  need  of  explanation,  being  purely  and  simply 
the  suppression  of  the  inverse  order.  And,  for  that,  it 
was  indispensable  to  prove  that  suppression  is  always  a 
substitution  and  is  even  necessarily  conceived  as  such: 
it  is  the  requirements  of  practical  life  alone  that  suggest 
to  us  here  a way  of  speaking  that  deceives  us  both  as  to 
what  happens  in  things  and  as  to  what  is  present  to  our 
thought.  We  must  now  examine  more  closely  the  in- 
version whose  consequences  we  have  just  described. 
What,  then,  is  the  principle  that  has  only  to  let  go  its 
tension — may  we  say  to  detend — in  order  to  extend,  the 
interruption  of  the  cause  here  being  equivalent  to  a re- 
versal of  the  effect? 

For  want  of  a better  word  we  have  called  it  consciousness. 
But  we  do  not  mean  the  narrowed  consciousness  that 
functions  in  each  of  us.  Our  own  consciousness  is  the  con- 
sciousness of  a certain  living  being,  placed  in  a certain 
point  of  space;  and  though  it  does  indeed  move  in  the  same 
direction  as  its  principle,  it  is  continually  drawm  the  op- 
posite way,  obliged,  though  it  goes  forward,  to  look  be- 
hind. This  retrospective  vision  is,  as  we  have  shown, 
the  natural  function  of  the  intellect,  and  consequently 
of  distinct  consciousness.  In  order  that  our  consciousness 
shall  coincide  with  something  of  its  principle,  it  must 
detach  itself  from  the  already-made  and  attach  itself  to  the 
being-made.  It  needs  that,  turning  back  on  itself  and 
twisting  on  itself,  the  faculty  of  seeing  should  be  made  to 
be  one  with  the  act  of  willing — a painful  effort  which  we 
can  make  suddenly,  doing  violence  to  our  nature,  but 
cannot  sustain  more  than  a few  moments.  In  free  action, 
when  we  contract  our  whole  being  in  order  to  thrust  it 
forward,  we  have  the  more  or  less  clear  consciousness 
of  motives  and  of  impelling  forces,  and  even,  at  rare  mo- 
ments, of  the  becoming  by  which  they  are  organized  into 


238 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


an  act:  but  the  pure  willing,  the  current  that  runs  through 
this  matter,  communicating  life  to  it,  is  a thing  which  we 
hardly  feel,  which  at  most  we  brush  lightly  as  it  passes. 
Let  us  try,  however,  to  instal  ourselves  within  it,  if  only  for 
a moment;  even  then  it  is  an  individual  and  fragmentary 
will  that  we  grasp.  To  get  to  the  principle  of  all  life,  as 
also  of  all  materiality,  we  must  go  further  still.  Is  it 
impossible?  No,  by  no  means;  the  history  of  philosophy 
is  there  to  bear  witness.  There  is  no  durable  system  that 
is  not,  at  least  in  some  of  its  parts,  vivified  by  intuition. 
Dialectic  is  necessary  to  put  intuition  to  the  proof,  necessary 
also  in  order  that  intuition  should  break  itself  up  into 
concepts  and  so  be  propagated  to  other  men;  but  all  it 
does,  often  enough,  is  to  develop  the  result  of  that  intuition 
which  transcends  it.  The  truth  is,  the  tw^o  procedures 
are  of  opposite  direction:  the  same  effort,  by  which  ideas 
are  connected  with  ideas,  causes  the  intuition  which  the 
ideas  were  storing  up  to  vanish.  The  philosopher  is 
obliged  to  abandon  intuition,  once  he  has  received  from 
it  the  impetus,  and  to  rely  on  himself  to  carry  on  the 
movement  by  pushing  the  concepts  one  after  another. 
But  he  soon  feels  he  has  lost  foothold;  he  must  come 
into  touch  with  intuition  again;  he  must  undo  most  of 
what  he  has  done.  In  short,  dialectic  is  what  ensures 
the  agreement  of  our  thought  with  itself.  But  by  dia- 
lectic— which  is  only  a relaxation  of  intuition — many 
different  agreements  are  possible,  while  there  is  only 
one  truth.  Intuition,  if  it  could  be  prolonged  beyond 
a few  instants,  would  not  only  make  the  philosopher 
agree  with  his  own  thought,  but  also  all  philosophers 
with  each  other.  Such  as  it  is,  fugitive  and  incomplete, 
it  is,  in  each  system,  w^hat  is  worth  more  than  the  system 
and  survives  it.  The  object  of  philosophy  would  be 
reached  if  this  intuition  could  be  sustained,  generalized 


III.l 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


239 


and,  above  all,  assured  of  external  points  of  reference  in 
order  not  to  go  astray.  To  that  end  a continual  coming 
and  going  is  necessary  between  nature  and  mind. 

When  we  put  back  our  being  into  our  will,  and  our 
will  itself  into  the  impulsion  it  prolongs,  we  understand, 
we  feel,  that  reality  is  a perpetual  growth,  a creation 
pursued  without  end.  Our  will  already  performs  this 
miracle.  Every  human  work  in  which  there  is  invention, 
every  voluntary  act  in  which  there  is  freedom,  every 
movement  of  an  organism  that  manifests  spontaneity, 
brings  something  new  into  the  world.  True,  these  are 
only  creations  of  form.  How  could  they  be  anything 
else?  We  are  not  the  vital  current  itself;  we  are  this 
current  already  loaded  with  matter,  that  is,  with  con- 
gealed parts  of  its  own  substance  which  it  carries  along 
its  course.  In  the  composition  of  a work  of  genius,  as 
in  a simple  free  decision,  we  do,  indeed,  stretch  the  spring 
of  our  activity  to  the  utmost  and  thus  create  what  no  mere 
assemblage  of  materials  could  have  given  (what  assemblage 
of  curves  already  known  can  ever  be  equivalent  to  the 
pencil-stroke  of  a great  artist?)  but  there  are,  none  the 
less,  elements  here  that  pre-exist  and  survive  their  or- 
ganization. But  if  a simple  arrest  of  the  action  that 
generates  form  could  constitute  matter  (are  not  the  original 
lines  drawn  by  the  artist  themselves  already  the  fixation 
and,  as  it  were,  congealment  of  a movement?),  a creation 
of  matter  would  be  neither  incomprehensible  nor  inad- 
missible. For  we  seize  from  within,  we  live  at  every 
instant,  a creation  of  form,  and  it  is  just  in  those  cases 
in  which  the  form  is  pure,  and  in  which  the  creative  current 
is  momentarily  interrupted,  that  there  is  a creation  of 
matter.  Consider  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  that  enter 
into  the  composition  of  everjdhing  that  has  ever  been 
written:  we  do  not  conceive  that  new  letters  spring  up 


240 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


and  come  to  join  themselves  to  the  others  in  order  to 
make  a new  poem.  But  that  the  poet  creates  the  poem 
and  that  human  thought  is  thereby  made  richer,  we  under- 
stand very  well:  this  creation  is  a simple  act  of  the  mind, 
and  action  has  only  to  make  a pause,  instead  of  continuing 
into  a new  creation,  in  order  that,  of  itself,  it  may  break 
up  into  words  which  dissociate  themselves  into  letters 
which  are  added  to  all  the  letters  there  are  already  in  the 
world.  ^ Thus,  that  the  number  of  atoms  composing  the 
material  universe  at  a given  moment  should  increase  runs 
counter  to  our  habits  of  mind,  contradicts  the  whole  of 
our  experience;  but  that  a reality  of  quite  another  order, 
which  contrasts  with  the  atom  as  the  thought  of  the  poet 
with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  should  increase  by  sudden 
additions,  is  not  inadmissible;  and  the  reverse  of  each 
addition  might  indeed  be  a world,  which  we  then  represent 
to  ourselves,  symbolically,  as  an  assemblage  of  atoms. 

The  mystery  that  spreads  over  the  existence  of  the 
universe  comes  in  great  part  from  this,  that  we  want  the 
genesis  of  it  to  have  been  accomplished  at  one  stroke  or 
the  whole  of  matter  to  be  eternal.  Whether  we  speak  of 
creation  or  posit  an  uncreated  matter,  it  is  the  totality 
of  the  universe  that  we  are  considering  at  once.  At  the 
root  of  this  habit  of  mind  lies  the  prejudice  which  we 
will  analyze  in  our  next  chapter,  the  idea,  common  to 
materialists  and  to  their  opponents,  that  there  is  no  really 
acting  duration,  and  that  the  absolute — matter  or  mind — 
can  have  no  place  in  concrete  time,  in  the  time  which  we 
feel  to  be  the  very  stuff  of  our  life.  From  which  it  follows 
that  everything  is  given  once  for  all,  and  that  it  is  necessary 
to  posit  from  all  eternity  either  material  multiplicity  it- 
self, or  the  act  creating  this  multiplicity,  given  in  block 
in  the  divine  essence.  Once  this  prejudice  is  eradicated, 
the  idea  of  creation  becomes  more  clear,  for  it  is  merged 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


241 


m.] 

in  that  of  growth.  But  it  is  no  longer  then  of  the  universe 
in  its  totality  that  we  must  speak. 

Why  should  we  speak  of  it?  The  universe  is  an  as- 
semblage of  solar  systems  which  we  have  every  reason 
to  believe  analogous  to  our  own.  No  doubt  they  are  not 
absolutely  independent  of  one  another.  Our  sun  radiates 
heat  and  light  beyond  the  farthest  planet,  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  our  entire  solar  system  is  moving  in  a definite 
direction  as  if  it  were  drawn.  There  is,  then,  a bond 
between  the  worlds.  But  this  bond  may  be  regarded  as 
infinitely  loose  in  comparison  with  the  mutual  dependence 
which  unites  the  parts  of  the  same  world  among  them- 
selves; so  that  it  is  not  artificially,  for  reasons  of  mere 
convenience,  that  we  isolate  our  solar  system:  nature 
itself  invites  us  to  isolate  it.  As  living  beings,  we  depend 
on  the  planet  on  which  we  are,  and  on  the  sun  that  pro- 
vides for  it,  but  on  nothing  else.  As  thinking  beings, 
we  may  apply  the  laws  of  our  physics  to  our  own  world, 
and  extend  them_  to  each  of  the  worlds  taken  separately; 
but  nothing  tells  us  that  they  apply  to  the  entire  universe, 
nor  even  that  such  an  affirmation  has  any  meaning;  for 
the  universe  is  not  made,  but  is  being  made  continually. 
It  is  growing,  perhaps  indefinitely,  by  the  addition  of  new 
worlds. 

Let  us  extend,  then,  to  the  whole  of  our  solar  system 
the  two  most  general  laws  of  our  science,  the  principle  of 
conservation  of  energy  and  that  of  its  degradation — 
limiting  them,  however,  to  this  relatively  closed  system 
and  to  other  systems  relatively  closed.  Let  us  see  what 
will  follow.  We  must  remark,  first  of  all,  that  these  two 
principles  have  not  the  same  metaphysical  scope.  The 
first  is  a quantitative  law,  and  consequently  relative, 
in  part,  to  our  methods  of  measurement.  It  says  that, 
in  a system  presumed  to  be  closed,  the  total  energy,  that 


242 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


is  to  say  the  sum  of  its  kinetic  and  potential  energy,  re- 
mains constant.  Now,  if  there  w^ere  only  kinetic  energy 
in  the  world,  or  even  if  there  were,  besides  kinetic  energy, 
only  one  single  kind  of  potential  energy,  but  no  more,  the 
artifice  of  measurement  would  not  make  the  law  artificial. 
The  law  of  the  conservation  of  energy  would  express  indeed 
that  something  is  preserved  in  constant  quantity.  But 
there  are,  in  fact,  energies  of  various  kinds,  ^ and  the  meas- 
urement of  each  of  them  has  evidently  been  so  chosen  as 
to  justify  the  principle  of  conservation  of  energy.  Con- 
vention, therefore,  plays  a large  part  in  this  principle, 
although  there  is  undoubtedly,  between  the  variations 
of  the  different  energies  composing  one  and  the  same 
system,  a mutual  dependence  which  is  just  what  has 
made  the  extension  of  the  principle  possible  by  measure- 
ments suitably  chosen.  If,  therefore,  the  philosopher 
applies  this  principle  to  the  solar  system  complete,  he 
must  at  least  soften  its  outlines.  The  law  of  the  con- 
servation of  energy  cannot  here  express  the  objective 
permanence  of  a certain  quantity  of  a certain  thing, 
but  rather  the  necessity  for  every  change  that  is  brought 
about  to  be  counterbalanced  in  some  w^ay  by  a change 
in  an  opposite  direction.  That  is  to  say,  even  if  it  governs 
the  w^hole  of  our  solar  system,  the  law  of  the  conservation 
of  energy  is  concerned  with  the  relationship  of  a fragment 
of  this  world  to  another  fragment  rather  than  with  the 
nature  of  the  whole. 

It  is  otherwise  with  the  second  principle  of  thermo- 
dynamics. The  law  of  the  degradation  of  energy  does 
not  bear  essentially  on  magnitudes.  No  doubt  the  first 
idea  of  it  arose,  in  the  thought  of  Carnot,  out  of  cer- 
tain quantitative  considerations  on  the  yield  of  thermic 

‘ On  these  differences  of  quality  see  the  work  of  Duhem,  L’Evolution 
de  la  mecanique,  Paris,  1905,  pp.  197  fif. 


III.l 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


243 


machines.  Unquestionably,  too,  the  terms  in  which 
Clausius  generalized  it  were  mathematical,  and  a cal- 
culable magnitude,  ‘‘entropy,’’  was,  in  fact,  the  final 
conception  to  which  he  was  led.  Such  precision  is  necessary 
for  practical  applications.  But  the  law  might  have  been 
vaguely  conceived,  and,  if  absolutely  necessary,  it  might 
have  been  roughly  formulated,  even  though  no  one  had 
ever  thought  of  measuring  the  different  energies  of  the 
physical  world,  even  though  the  concept  of  energy  had 
not  been  created.  Essentially,  it  expresses  the  fact  that 
all  physical  changes  have  a tendency  to  be  degraded  into 
heat,  and  that  heat  tends  to  be  distributed  among  bodies 
in  a uniform  manner.  In  this  less  precise  form,  it  becomes 
independent  of  any  convention;  it  is  the  most  metaphysi-. 
cal  of  the  laws  of  physics  since  it  points  out  vdthout  inter- 
posed symbols,  without  artificial  devices  of  measurements, 
the  direction  in  which  the  world  is  going.  It  tells  us  that 
changes  that  are  visible  and  heterogeneous  will  be  more  and 
more  diluted  into  changes  that  are  invisible  and  homo- 
geneous, and  that  the  instability  to  which  w^e  owe  the  rich- 
ness and  variety  of  the  changes  taking  place  in  our  solar 
system  will  gradually  give  way  to  the  relative  stability 
of  elementary  vibrations  continually  and  perpetually 
repeated.  Just  so  with  a man  who  keeps  up  his  strength 
as  he  grows  old,  but  spends  it  less  and  less  in  actions,  and 
comes,  in  the  end,  to  employ  it  entirely  in  making  his  lungs 
breathe  and  his  heart  beat. 

From  this  point  of  view,  a world  like  our  solar  system 
is  seen  to  be  ever  exhausting  something  of  the  muta- 
bility it  contains.  In  the  beginning,  it  had  the  maximum  of 
possible  utilization  of  energy;  this  mutability  has  gone 
on  diminishing  unceasingly.  Whence  does  it  come?  We 
might  at  first  suppose  that  it  has  come  from  some  other 
point  of  space,  but  the  difficulty  is  only  set  back,  and  for 


244 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


this  external  source  of  mutability  the  same  question  springs 
up.  True,  it  might  be  added  that  the  number  of  worlds 
capable  of  passing  mutability  to  each  other  is  unlimited, 
that  the  sum  of  mutability  contained  in  the  universe  is  in- 
finite, that  there  is  therefore  no  ground  on  which  to  seek  its 
origin  or  to  foresee  its  end.  A hypothesis  of  this  kind  is  as 
irrefutable  as  it  is  indemonstrable;  but  to  speak  of  an  infinite 
universe  is  to  admit  a perfect  coincidence  of  matter  with 
abstract  space,  and  consequently  an  absolute  externality 
of  all  the  parts  of  matter  in  relation  to  one  another.  We 
have  seen  above  what  we  must  think  of  this  theory,  and 
how  difficult  it  is  to  reconcile  with  the  idea  of  a reciprocal 
influence  of  all  the  parts  of  matter  on  one  another,  an 
influence  to  which  indeed  it  itself  makes  appeal.  Again  it 
might  be  supposed  that  the  general  instability  has  arisen 
from  a general  state  of  stability;  that  the  period  in 
which  we  now  are,  and  in  which  the  utilizable  energy  is 
diminishing,  has  been  preceded  by  a period  in  which 
the  mutability  was  increasing,  and  that  the  alternations 
of  increase  and  diminution  succeed  each  other  for  ever. 
This  hypothesis  is  theoretically  conceivable,  as  has  been 
demonstrated  quite  recently;  but,  according  to  the  cal- 
culations of  Boltzmann,  the  mathematical  improbabil- 
ity of  it  passes  all  imagination  and  practically  amounts 
to  absolute  impossibility.'  In  reality,  the  problem  re- 
mains insoluble  as  long  as  we  keep  on  the  ground  of  physics, 
for  the  physicist  is  obliged  to  attach  energy  to  extended 
particles,  and,  even  if  he  regards  the  particles  only  as 
reservoirs  of  energy",  he  remains  in  space:  he  would  belie 
his  role  if  he  sought  the  origin  of  these  energies  in  an  extra- 
spatial  process.  It  is  there,  however,  in  our  opinion,  that 
it  must  be  sought. 

Is  it  extension  in  general  that  we  are  considering  in 

1 Boltzmann,  Vorlesungen  uber  Gastheorie,  Leipzig,  1898,  pp.  253  ff. 


III.l 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


245 


abstractor  Extension,  we  said,  appears  only  as  a tension 
which  is  interrupted.  Or,  are  we  considering  the  con- 
crete reality  that  fills  this  extension?  The  order  which 
reigns  there,  and  which  is  manifested  by  the  laws  of  nature, 
is  an  order  which  must  be  born  of  itself  when  the  inverse 
order  is  suppressed ; a detension  of  the  will  would  produce 
precisely  this  suppression.  Lastly,  we  find  that  the 
direction,  which  this  reality  takes,  suggests  to  us  the  idea 
of  a thing  unmaking  itself;  such,  no  doubt,  is  one  of  the 
essential  characters  of  materiality.  What  conclusion  are 
we  to  draw  from  all  this,  if  not  that  the  process  by  which 
this  thing  makes  itself  is  directed  in  a contrary  way  to  that 
of  physical  processes,  and  that  it  is  therefore,  by  its  very 
definition,  immaterial?  The  vision  we  have  of  the  material 
world  is  that  of  a weight  which  falls : no  image  drawn  from 
matter,  properly  so  called,  will  ever  give  us  the  idea  of  the 
weight  rising.  But  this  conclusion  will  come  home  to  us 
with  still  greater  force  if  we  press  nearer  to  the  concrete 
reality,  and  if  we  consider,  no  longer  only  matter  in  general, 
but,  within  this  matter,  living  bodies. 

All  our  analyses  show  us,  in  life,  an  effort  to  re-mount 
the  incline  that  matter  descends.  In  that,  they  reveal 
to  us  the  possibility,  the  necessity  even  of  a process 
the  inverse  of  materiality,  creative  of  matter  by  its  in- 
terruption alone.  The  life  that  evolves  on  the  surface 
of  our  planet  is  indeed  attached  to  matter.  If  it  were 
pure  consciousness,  a fortiori  if  it  were  supraconscious- 
ness,  it  would  be  pure  creative  activity.  In  fact,  it  is 
riveted  to  an  organism  that  subjects  it  to  the  general 
laws  of  inert  matter.  But  everything  happens  as  if  it 
were  doing  its  utmost  to  set  itself  free  from  these  laws. 
It  has  not  the  power  to  reverse  the  direction  of  physical 
changes,  such  as  the  principle  of  Carnot  determines  it. 
It  does,  however,  behave  absolutely  as  a force  would 


246 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


behave  which,  left  to  itself,  would  work  in  the  inverse 
direction.  Incapable  of  stopping  the  course  of  material 
changes  downwards,  it  succeeds  in  retarding  it.  The 
evolution  of  life  really  continues,  as  we  have  shown, 
an  initial  impulsion:  this  impulsion,  which  has  deter- 
mined the  development  of  the  chlorophyllian  function 
in  the  plant  and  of  the  sensori-motor  system  in  the  ani- 
mal, brings  life  to  more  and  more  efficient  acts  by  the 
fabrication  and  use  of  more  and  more  powerful  explosives. 
Now,  what  do  these  explosives  represent  if  not  a storing- 
up  of  the  solar  energy,  the  degradation  of  which  energy 
is  thus  provisionally  suspended  on  some  of  the  points 
where  it  was  being  poured  forth?  The  usable  energy  which 
the  explosive  conceals  will  be  expended,  of  course,  at  the 
moment  of  the  explosion;  but  it  would  have  been  expended 
sooner  if  an  organism  had  not  happened  to  be  there  to 
arrest  its  dissipation,  in  order  to  retain  it  and  save  it  up. 
As  we  see  it  to-day,  at  the  point  to  which  it  was  brought 
by  a scission  of  the  mutually  complementary  tendencies 
which  it  contained  within  itself,  life  is  entirely  dependent 
on  the  chlorophyllian  function  of  the  plant.  This  means 
that,  looked  at  in  its  initial  impulsion,  before  any  scission, 
life  was  a tendency  to  accumulate  in  a reservoir,  as  do 
especially  the  green  parts  of  vegetables,  with  a view 
to  an  instantaneous  effective  discharge,  like  that  which 
an  animal  brings  about,  something  that  would  have 
otherwise  flowed  away.  It  is  like  an  effort  to  raise  the 
weight  which  falls.  True,  it  succeeds  only  in  retarding 
the  fall.  But  at  least  it  can  give  us  an  idea  of  what  the 
raising  of  the  weight  was.‘ 

‘ In  a book  rich  in  facts  and  in  ideas  (La  Dissolution  opposie  a revolution^ 
Paris,  1899),  M.  Andr4  Lalande  shows  us  everything  going  towards 
death,  in  spite  of  the  momentary  resistance  which  organisms  seem 
to  oppose. — But,  even  from  the  side  of  unorganized  matter,  have  we 
the  right  to  extend  to  the  entire  universe  considerations  drawn  from 


III.I 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


247 


Let  us  imagine  a vessel  full  of  steam  at  a high  pressure, 
and  here  and  there  in  its  sides  a crack  through  which  the 
steam  is  escaping  in  a jet.  The  steam  thrown  into  the  air 
is  nearly  all  condensed  into  little  drops  which  fall  back,  and 
this  condensation  and  this  fall  represent  simply  the  loss 
of  something,  an  interruption,  a deficit.  But  a small 
part  of  the  jet  of  steam  subsists,  uncondensed,  for  some 
seconds;  it  is  making  an  effort  to  raise  the  drops  which 
are  falling;  it  succeeds  at  most  in  retarding  their  fall. 
So,  from  an  immense  reservoir  of  life,  jets  must  be  gushing 
out  unceasingly,  of  which  each,  falling  back,  is  a world. 
The  evolution  of  living  species  within  this  world  repre- 
sents what  subsists  of  the  primitive  direction  of  the 
original  jet,  and  of  an  impulsion  which  continues  itself 
in  a direction  the  inverse  of  materiality.  But  let  us 
not  carry  too  far  this  comparison.  It  gives  us  but  a 
feeble  and  even  deceptive  image  of  reality,  for  the  crack, 
the  jet  of  steam,  the  forming  of  the  drops,  are  deter- 
mined necessarily,  whereas  the  creation  of  a world  is 
a free  act,  and  the  life  within  the  material  world  partici- 
pates in  this  liberty.  Let  us  think  rather  of  an  action 
like  that  of  raising  the  arm;  then  let  us  suppose  that 
the  arm,  left  to  itself,  falls  back,  and  yet  that  there  sub- 
sists in  it,  striving  to  raise  it  up  again,  something  of  the 
will  that  animates  it.  In  this  image  of  a creative  action 
which  unmakes  itself  we  have  already  a more  exact  re- 

the  present  state  of  our  solar  system?  Beside  the  worlds  which  are 
dying,  there  are  without  doubt  worlds  that  are  being  born.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  the  organized  world,  the  death  of  individuals  does  not 
seem  at  all  like  a diminution  of  “life  in  general,’'  or  like  a necessity 
which  life  submits  to  reluctantly.  As  has  been  more  than  once  re- 
marked, life  has  never  made  an  effort  to  prolong  indefinitely  the  exist- 
ence of  the  individual,  although  on  so  many  other  points  it  has  made 
so  many  successful  efforts.  Everything  is  as  if  this  death  had  been 
willed,  or  at  least  accepted,  f''r  the  greater  progress  of  life  in  general. 


248 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHA1\ 


presentation  of  matter.  In  vital  activity  we  see,  then, 
that  which  subsists  of  the  direct  movement  in  the  inverted 
movement,  a reality  which  is  making  itself  in  a reality 
which  is  unmaking  itself. 

Ever3dhing  is  obscure  in  the  idea  of  creation  if  we 
think  of  things  which  are  created  and  a thing  which  creates, 
as  we  habitually  do,  as  the  understanding  cannot  help 
doing.  We  shall  show  the  origin  of  this  illusion  in  our 
next  chd^pter.  It  is  natural  to  our  intellect,  whose  function 
is  essentially  practical,  made  to  present  to  us  things  and 
states  rather  than  changes  and  acts.  But  things  and 
states  are  only  views,  taken  by  our  mind,  of  becoming. 
There  are  no  things,  there  are  only  actions.  More  particu- 
larly, if  I consider  the  world  in  which  we  live,  I find  that 
the  automatic  and  strictly  determined  evolution  of  this 
well-knit  whole  is  action  which  is  unmaking  itself,  and  that 
the  unforeseen  forms  which  life  cuts  out  in  it,  forms  capable 
of  being  themselves  prolonged  into  unforeseen  movements, 
represent  the  action  that  is  making  itself.  Now,  I have 
every  reason  to  believe  that  the  other  worlds  are  analogous 
to  ours,  that  things  happen  there  in  the  same  way.  And 
I know  they  were  not  all  constructed  at  the  same  time, 
since  observation  shows  me,  even  to-day,  nebulae  in 
course  of  concentration.  Now,  if  the  same  kind  of  action 
is  going  on  everywhere,  whether  it  is  that  which  is  unmaking 
itself  or  whether  it  is  that  which  is  striving  to  remake 
itself,  I simply  express  this  probable  similitude  when  I 
speak  of  a centre  from  which  worlds  shoot  out  like  rockets 
in  a fire-works  display — provided,  however,  that  I do  not 
present  this  centre  as  a thing,  but  as  a continuity  of  shoot- 
ing out.  God  thus  defined,  has  nothing  of  the  already 
made;  He  is  unceasing  life,  action,  freedom.  Creation, 
so  conceived,  is  not  a mystery;  we  experience  it  in  our- 
selves when  we  act  freely.  That  new  things  can  join 


III.l 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


249 


things  already  existing  is  absurd,  no  doubt,  since  the 
thing  results  from  a solidification  performed  by  our  under- 
standing, and  there  are  never  any  things  other  than  those 
that  the  understanding  has  thus  constituted.  To  speak 
of  things  creating  themselves  would  therefore  amount 
to  saying  that  the  understanding  presents  to  itself  more 
than  it  presents  to  itself — a self-contradictory  affirmation, 
an  empty  and  vain  idea.  But  that  action  increases  as  it 
goes  on,  that  it  creates  in  the  measure  of  its  advance, 
is  what  each  of  us  finds  when  he  watches  himself  act. 
Things  are  constituted  by  the  instantaneous  cut  which 
the  understanding  practices,  at  a given  moment,  on  a flux 
of  this  kind,  and  what  is  mysterious  when  we  compare 
the  cuts  together  becomes  clear  when  we  relate  them  to 
the  flux.  Indeed,  the  modalities  of  creative  action,  in  so 
far  as  it  is  still  going  on  in  the  organization  of  living  forms, 
are  much  simplified  when  they  are  taken  in  this  way. 
Before  the  complexity  of  an  organism  and  the  practically 
infinite  multitude  of  interwoven  analyses  and  syntheses 
it  presupposes,  our  understanding  recoils  disconcerted. 
That  the  simple  play  of  physical  and  chemical  forces, 
left  to  themselves,  should  have  worked  this  marvel,  we 
find  hard  to  believe.  And  if  it  is  a profound  science 
which  is  at  work,  how  are  we  to  understand  the  influence 
exercised  on  this  matter  without  form  by  this  form  without 
matter?  But  the  difficulty  arises  from  this,  that  we 
represent  statically  ready-made  material  particles  juxta- 
posed to  one  another,  and,  also  statically,  an  external 
cause  wLich  plasters  upon  them  a skilfully  contrived 
organization.  In  reality,  life  is  a movement,  materiality 
is  the  inverse  movement,  and  each  of  these  two  movements 
is  simple,  the  matter  which  forms  a world  being  an  un- 
divided flux,  and  undivided  also  the  life  that  runs  through 
it,  cutting  out  in  it  living  beings  all  along  its  track.  Of 


250 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


these  two  currents  the  second  runs  counter  to  the  first, 
but  the  first  obtains,  all  the  same,  something  from  the 
second.  There  results  between  them  a modus  vivendi, 
whicn  is  organization.  This  organization  takes,  for  our 
e.enses  and  for  our  intellect,  the  form  of  parts  entirely 
external  to  other  parts  in  space  and  in  time.  Not  only 
do  we  shut  our  eyes  to  the  unity  of  the  impulse  which, 
passing  through  generations,  links  individuals  with  in- 
dividuate, species  with  species,  and  makes  of  the  whole 
series  of  the  living  one  single  immense  wave  flowing  over 
matter,  but  each  individual  itself  seems  to  us  as  an  aggre- 
gate, aggregate  of  molecules  and  aggregate  of  facts.  The 
reason  of  this  lies  in  the  structure  of  our  intellect,  which 
is  formed  to  act  on  matter  from  without,  and  which  suc- 
ceeds by  making,  in  the  flux  of  the  real,  instantaneous 
cuts,  each  of  which  becomes,  in  its  fixity,  endlessly  de- 
composable. Perceiving,  in  an  organism,  only  parts 
external  to  parts,  the  understanding  has  the  choice 
between  two  systems  of  explanation  only:  either  to 
regard  the  infinitely  complex  (and  thereby  infinitely 
well-contrived)  organization  as  a fortuitous  concatena- 
tion of  atoms,  or  to  relate  it  to  the  incomprehensible 
influence  of  an  external  force  that  has  grouped  its  ele- 
ments together.  But  this  complexity  is  the  work  of 
the  understanding;  this  incomprehensibility  is  also  its 
work.  Let  us  try  to  see,  no  longer  with  the  eyes  of 
the  intellect  alone,  which  grasps  only  the  already  made 
and  which  looks  from  the  outside,  but  with  the  spirit, 
I mean  with  that  faculty  of  seeing  which  is  immanent 
in  the  faculty  of  acting  and  which  springs  up,  somehow, 
by  the  twisting  of  the  will  on  itself,  when  action  is  turned 
into  knowledge,  like  heat,  so  to  say,  into  light.  To 
movement,  then,  everything  will  be  restored,  and  into 
movement  everything  wdll  be  resolved.  Where  the  un- 


III.l 


IDEAL  GENESIS  OF  MATTER 


251 


derstanding,  working  on  the  image  supposed  to  be  fixed 
of  the  progressing  action,  shows  us  parts  infinitely  mani- 
fold and  an  order  infinitely  well  contrived,  we  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a simple  process,  an  action  which  is  making 
itself  across  an  action  of  the  same  kind  which  is  unmaking 
itself,  like  the  fiery  path  torn  by  the  last  rocket  of  a fire- 
works display  through  the  black  cinders  of  the  spent 
rockets  that  are  falling  dead. 

From  this  point  of  view,  the  general  considerations 
we  have  presented  concerning  the  evolution  of  life  will 
be  cleared  up  and  completed.  We  will  distinguish  more 
sharply  what  is  accidental  from  what  is  essential  in  this 
evolution. 

The  impetus  of  life,  of  which  we  are  speaking,  consists 
in  a need  of  creation.  It  cannot  create  absolutely,  be- 
cause it  is  confronted  with  matter,  that  is  to  say  with  the 
movement  that  is  the  inverse  of  its  own.  But  it  seizes 
upon  this  matter,  which  is  necessity  itself,  and  strives 
to  introduce  into  it  the  largest  possible  amount  of  indeter- 
mination and  liberty.  How  does  it  go  to  work? 

An  animal  high  in  the  scale  may  be  represented  in 
a general  way,  we  said,  as  a sensori-motor  nervous  system 
imposed  on  digestive,  respiratory,  circulatory  systems, 
etc.  The  function  of  these  latter  is  to  cleanse,  repair 
and  protect  the  nervous  system,  to  make  it  as  independent 
as  possible  of  external  circumstances,  but,  above  all,  to 
furnish  it  with  energy  to  be  expended  in  movements. 
The  increasing  complexity  of  the  organism  is  therefore 
due  theoretically  (in  spite  of  innumerable  exceptions 
due  to  accidents  of  evolution)  to  the  necessity  of  complexity 
in  the  nervous  system.  No  doubt,  each  complication 
of  any  part  of  the  organism  involves  many  others  in  ad- 
dition, because  this  part  itself  must  live,  and  every  change 


252 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


in  one  point  of  the  body  reverberates,  as  it  were,  through- 
out. The  complication  may  therefore  go  on  to  infinity 
in  all  directions;  but  it  is  the  complication  of  the  nervous 
system  which  conditions  the  others  in  right,  if  not  always 
in  fact.  Now,  in  what  does  the  progress  of  the  nervous 
system  itself  consist?  In  a simultaneous  development 
of  automatic  activity  and  of  voluntary  activity,  the  first 
furnishing  the  second  with  an  appropriate  instrument. 
Thus,  in/ an  organism  such  as  ours,  a considerable  number 
of  motor  mechanisms  are  set  up  in  the  medulla  and  in  the 
spinal  cord,  awaiting  only  a signal  to  release  the  correspond- 
ing act:  the  will  is  employed,  in  some  cases,  in  setting  up 
the  mechanism  itself,  and  in  the  others  in  choosing  the 
mechanisms  to  be  released,  the  manner  of  combining  them 
and  the  moment  of  releasing  them.  The  will  of  an  animal 
is  the  more  effective  and  the  more  intense,  the  greater 
the  number  of  the  mechanisms  it  can  choose  from,  the 
more  complicated  the  switchboard  on  which  all  the  motor 
paths  cross,  or,  in  other  words,  the  more  developed  its 
brain.  Thus,  the  progress  of  the  nervous  system  assures 
to  the  act  increasing  precision,  increasing  variety,  in- 
creasing efficiency  and  independence.  The  organism  be- 
haves more  and  more  like  a machine  for  action,  which 
reconstructs  itself  entirely  for  every  new  act,  as  if  it  were 
made  of  india-rubber  and  could,  at  any  moment,  change 
the  shape  of  all  its  parts.  But,  prior  to  the  nervous 
system,  prior  even  to  the  organism  properly  so  called, 
already  in  the  undifferentiated  mass  of  the  amoeba, 
this  essential  property  of  animal  life  is  found.  The  amoeba 
deforms  itself  in  varying  directions;  its  entire  mass  does 
wLat  the  differentiation  of  parts  will  localize  in  a sensori- 
motor system  in  the  developed  animal.  Doing  it  only 
in  a rudimentary  manner,  it  is  dispensed  from  the  com- 
plexity of  the  higher  organisms;  there  is  no  need  here  of 


III.I 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


253 


the  auxiliary  elements  that  pass  on  to  motor  elements 
the  energy  to  expend;  the  animal  moves  as  a whole,  and, 
as  a whole  also,  procures  energy  by  means  of  the  organic 
substances  it  assimilates.  Thus,  whether  low  or  high  in 
the  animal  scale,  we  always  find  that  animal  life  consists 
(1)  in  procuring  a provision  of  energy;  (2)  in  expending  it, 
by  means  of  a matter  as  supple  as  possible,  in  directions 
variable  and  unforeseen. 

Now,  whence  comes  the  energy?  From  the  ingested 
food,  for  food  is  a kind  of  explosive,  which  needs  only 
the  spark  to  discharge  the  energy  it  stores.  Who  has 
made  this  explosive?  The  food  may  be  the  flesh  of  an 
animal  nourished  on  animals  and  so  on;  but,  in  the  end 
it  is  to  the  vegetable  we  always  come  back.  Vegetables 
alone  gather  in  the  solar  energy,  and  the  animals  do  but 
borrow  it  from  them,  either  directly  or  by  some  passing 
it  on  to  others.  How  then  has  the  plant  stored  up  this 
energy?  Chiefly  by  the  chlorophy Ilian  function,  a chem- 
icism  sui  generis  of  which  we  do  not  possess  the  key,  and 
which  is  probably  unlike  that  of  our  laboratories.  The 
process  consists  in  using  solar  energy  to  fix  the  carbon 
of  carbonic  acid,  and  thereby  to  store  this  energy  as  we 
should  store  that  of  a water-carrier  by  employing  him  to 
fill  an  elevated  reservoir:  the  water,  once  brought  up,  can 
set  in  motion  a mill  or  a turbine,  as  we  will  and  when  we 
will.  Each  atom  of  carbon  fixed  represents  something 
like  the  elevation  of  the  weight  of  water,  or  like  the  stretch- 
ing of  an  elastic  thread  uniting  the  carbon  to  the  oxygen 
in  the  carbonic  acid.  The  elastic  is  relaxed,  the  weight 
falls  back  again,  in  short  the  energy  held  in  reserve  is 
restored,  when,  by  a simple  release,  the  carbon  is  per- 
mitted to  rejoin  its  oxygen. 

So  that  all  life,  animal  and  vegetable,  seems  in  its  essence 
like  an  effort  to  accumulate  energy  and  then  to  let  it 


254 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


flow  into  flexible  channels,  changeable  in  shape,  at  the 
end  of  which  it  will  accomplish  infinitely  varied  kinds 
of  work.  That  is  what  the  vital  impetus,  passing  through 
matter,  would  fain  do  all  at  once.  It  would  succeed, 
no  doubt,  if  its  power  were  unlimited,  or  if  some  reinforce- 
ment could  come  to  it  from  without.  But  the  impetus 
is  finite,  and  it  has  been  given  once  for  all.  It  cannot 
overcome  all  obstacles.  The  movement  it  starts  is  some- 
times turned  aside,  sometimes  divided,  always  opposed; 
and  the  evolution  of  the  organized  world  is  the  unrolling 
of  this  conflict.  The  first  great  scission  that  had  to  be 
effected  was  that  of  the  two  kingdoms,  vegetable  and 
animal,  which  thus  happen  to  be  mutually  complementary, 
without,  however,  any  agreement  having  been  made 
between  them.  It  is  not  for  the  animal  that  the  plant 
accumulates  energy,  it  is  for  its  own  consumption;  but 
its  expenditure  on  itself  is  less  discontinuous,  and  less 
concentrated,  and  therefore  less  efficacious,  than  was 
required  by  the  initial  impetus  of  life,  essentially  directed 
toward  free  actions:  the  same  organism  could  not  with 
equal  force  sustain  the  two  functions  at  once,  of  gradual 
storage  and  sudden  use.  Of  themselves,  therefore,  and 
without  any  external  intervention,  simply  by  the  effect 
of  the  duality  of  the  tendency  involved  in  the  original 
impetus  and  of  the  resistance  opposed  by  matter  to  this 
impetus,  the  organisms  leaned  some  in  the  first  direction, 
others  in  the  second.  To  this  scission  there  succeeded 
many  others.  Hence  the  diverging  lines  of  evolution, 
at  least  what  is  essential  in  them.  But  we  must  take  into 
account  retrogressions,  arrests,  accidents  of  every  kind. 
And  we  must  remember,  above  all,  that  each  species 
behaves  as  if  the  general  movement  of  life  stopped  at  it 
instead  of  passing  through  it.  It  thinks  only  of  itself, 
it  lives  only  for  itself.  Hence  the  numberless  struggles 


III.] 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


255 


that  we  behold  in  nature.  Hence  a discord,  striking 
and  terrible,  but  for  which  the  original  principle  of  life 
must  not  be  held  responsible. 

The  part  played  by  contingency  in  evolution  is  there- 
fore great.  Contingent,  generally,  are  the  forms  adopted, 
or  rather  invented.  Contingent,  relative  to  the  obstacles 
encountered  in  a given  place  and  at  a given  moment, 
is  the  dissociation  of  the  primordial  tendency  into  such  and 
such  complementary  tendencies  which  create  divergent 
lines  of  evolution.  Contingent  the  arrests  and  set-backs; 
contingent,  in  large  measure,  the  adaptations.  Two 
things  only  are  necessary:  (1)  a gradual  accumulation 
of  energy;  (2)  an  elastic  canalization  of  this  energy  in 
variable  and  indeterminable  directions,  at  the  end  of  which 
are  free  acts. 

This  twofold  result  has  been  obtained  in  a particular 
way  on  our  planet.  But  it  might  have  been  obtained 
by  entirely  different  means.  It  was  not  necessary  that 
life  should  fix  its  choice  mainly  upon  the  carbon  of  car- 
bonic acid.  What  was  essential  for  it  was  to  store  solar 
energy;  but,  instead  of  asking  the  sun  to  separate,  for 
instance,  atoms  of  oxygen  and  carbon,  it  might  (theoret- 
ically at  least,  and,  apart  from  practical  difficulties  possibly 
insurmountable)  have  put  forth  other  chemical  elements, 
which  would  then  have  had  to  be  associated  or  dissociated 
by  entirely  different  physical  means.  And  if  the  element 
characteristic  of  the  substances  that  supply  energy  to  the 
organism  had  been  other  than  carbon,  the  element  char- 
acteristic of  the  plastic  substances  would  probably  have 
been  other  than  nitrogen,  and  the  chemistry  of  living  bodies 
would  then  have  been  radically  different  from  what  it  is. 
The  result  would  have  been  living  forms  without  any 
analogy  to  those  we  know,  whose  anatomy  would  have 
been  different,  whose  physiology  also  would  have  been 


256 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


different.  Alone,  the  sensori-motor  function  would  have 
been  preserved,  if  not  in  its  mechanism,  at  least  in  its 
effects.  It  is  therefore  probable  that  life  goes  on  in  other 
planets,  in  other  solar  systems  also,  under  forms  of  which 
we  have  no  idea,  in  physical  conditions  to  which  it  seems  to 
us,  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  physiology,  to  be  ab- 
solutely opposed.  If  its  essential  aim  is  to  catch  up 
usable  energy  in  order  to  expend  it  in  explosive  actions, 
it  projpably  chooses,  in  each  solar  system  and  on  each 
planet,  as  it  does  on  the  earth,  the  fittest  means  to  get 
this  result  in  the  circumstances  with  which  it  is  con- 
fronted. That  is  at  least  what  reasoning  by  analogy  leads 
to,  and  we  use  analogy  the  wTong  way  when  we  declare 
life  to  be  impossible  wherever  the  circumstances  with 
which  it  is  confronted  are  other  than  those  on  the  earth. 
The  truth  is  that  life  is  possible  wherever  energy  descends 
the  incline  indicated  by  Carnot’s  law  and  where  a cause 
of  inverse  direction  can  retard  the  descent — that  is  to  say, 
probably,  in  all  the  worlds  suspended  from  all  the  stars. 
We  go  further:  it  is  not  even  necessary  that  life  should  be 
concentrated  and  determined  in  organisms  properly  so 
called,  that  is,  in  definite  bodies  presenting  to  the  flow  of 
energy  ready-made  though  elastic  canals.  It  can  be  con- 
ceived (although  it  can  hardly  be  imagined)  that  energy 
might  be  saved  up,  and  then  expended  on  varying  lines 
running  across  a matter  not  yet  solidified.  Every  es- 
sential of  life  would  still  be  there,  since  there  would  still 
be  slow  accumulation  of  energy  and  sudden  release.  There 
would  hardly  be  more  difference  between  this  vitality, 
vague  and  formless,  and  the  definite  vitality  we  know, 
than  there  is,  in  our  psychical  life,  between  the  state  of 
dream  and  the  state  of  waking.  Such  may  have  been  the 
condition  of  life  in  our  nebula  before  the  condensation  of 
matter  was  complete,  if  it  be  true  that  life  springs  forward 


III.  I 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


257 


at  the  very  moment  when,  as  the  effect  of  an  inverse  move- 
ment, the  nebular  matter  appears. 

It  is  therefore  conceivable  that  life  might  have  assumed 
a totally  different  outward  appearance  and  designed  forms 
very  different  from  those  we  know.  With  another  chemical 
substratum,  in  other  physical  conditions,  the  impulsion 
would  have  remained  the  same,  but  it  would  have  split 
up  very  differently  in  course  of  progress;  and  the  whole 
would  have  traveled  another  road — whether  shorter  or 
longer  who  can  tell?  In  any  case,  in  the  entire  series  of 
living  beings  no  term  would  have  been  what  it  now  is. 
Now,  was  it  necessary  that  there  should  be  a series,  or 
terms?  Why  should  not  the  unique  impetus  have  been 
impressed  on  a unique  body,  which  might  have  gone  on 
evolving? 

This  question  arises,  no  doubt,  from  the  comparison 
of  life  to  an  impetus.  And  it  must  be  compared  to  an 
impetus,  because  no  image  borrowed  from  the  physical 
world  can  give  more  nearly  the  idea  of  it.  But  it  is  only 
an  image.  In  reality,  life  is  of  the  psychological  order, 
and  it  is  of  the  essence  of  the  psychical  to  enfold  a 
confused  plurality  of  interpenetrating  terms.  In  space, 
and  in  space  only,  is  distinct  multiplicity  possible:  a point 
is  absolutely  external  to  another  point.  But  pure  and 
empty  unity,  also,  is  met  with  only  in  space;  it  is  that 
of  a mathematical  point.  Abstract  unity  and  abstract 
multiplicity  are  determinations  of  space  or  categories  of 
the  understanding,  whichever  we  will,  spatiality  and  in- 
tellectuality being  molded  on  each  other.  But  wLat  is  of 
psychical  nature  cannot  entirely  correspond  with  space, 
nor  enter  perfectly  into  the  categories  of  the  understanding. 
Is  my  own  person,  at  a given  moment,  one  or  manifold? 
If  I declare  it  one,  inner  voices  arise  and  protest — those 
of  the  sensations,  feelings,  ideas,  among  which  my  in- 


258 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


dividuality  is  distributed.  But,  if  I make  it  distinctly 
manifold,  my  consciousness  rebels  quite  as  strongly;  it 
affirms  that  my  sensations,  my  feelings,  my  thoughts 
are  abstractions  which  I effect  on  myself,  and  that  each 
of  my  states  implies  all  the  others.  I am  then  (we  must 
adopt  the  language  of  the  understanding,  since  only 
the  understanding  has  a language)  a unity  that  is  multiple 
and  a multiplicity  that  is  one;‘  but  unity  and  multiplicity 
are  only  views  of  my  personality  taken  by  an  understand- 
ing that  directs  its  categories  at  me;  I enter  neither  into 
one  nor  into  the  other  nor  into  both  at  once,  although 
both,  united,  may  give  a fair  imitation  of  the  mutual 
interpenetration  and  continuity  that  I find  at  the  base  of 
my  own  self.  Such  is  my  inner  life,  and  such  also  is  life 
in  general.  While,  in  its  contact  with  matter,  life  is 
comparable  to  an  impulsion  or  an  impetus,  regarded  in 
itself  it  is  an  immensity  of  potentiality,  a mutual  encroach- 
ment of  thousands  and  thousands  of  tendencies  which 
nevertheless  are  “thousands  and  thousands”  only  when 
once  regarded  as  outside  of  each  other,  that  is,  when 
spatialized.  Contact  with  matter  is  what  determines 
this  dissociation.  Matter  divides  actually  what  was  but 
potentially  manifold;  and,  in  this  sense,  individuation 
is  in  part  the  work  of  matter,  in  part  the  result  of  lifers 
own  inclination.  Thus,  a poetic  sentiment,  which  bursts 
into  distinct  verses,  lines  and  words,  may  be  said  to  have 
already  contained  this  multiplicity  of  individuated  ele- 
ments, and  yet,  in  fact,  it  is  the  materiality  of  language 
that  creates  it. 

But  through  the  words,  lines  and  verses  runs  the  simple 
inspiration  which  is  the  whole  poem.  So,  among  the 

* We  have  dwelt  on  this  point  in  an  article  entitled  “Introduction 
a la  m^taphysique”  {Revue  de  metaphysique  et  de  morale,  January,  1903, 
pp.  1-25). 


III.l 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


259 


dissociated  individuals,  one  life  goes  on  moving:  every- 
where the  tendency  to  individualize  is  opposed  and  at 
the  same  time  completed  by  an  antagonistic  and  com- 
plementary tendency  to  associate,  as  if  the  manifold 
unity  of  life,  drawn  in  the  direction  of  multiplicity,  made 
so  much  the  more  effort  to  withdraw  itself  on  to  itself. 
A part  is  no  sooner  detached  than  it  tends  to  reunite 
itself,  if  not  to  all  the  rest,  at  least  to  what  is  nearest 
to  it.  Hence,  throughout  the  whole  realm  of  life,  a balanc- 
ing between  individuation  and  association.  Individuals 
join  together  into  a society;  but  the  society,  as  soon  as 
formed,  tends  to  melt  the  associated  individuals  into  a new 
organism,  so  as  to  become  itself  an  individual,  able  in 
its  turn  to  be  part  and  parcel  of  a new  association.  At  the 
lowest  degree  of  the  scale  of  organisms  we  already  find 
veritable  associations,  microbial  colonies,  and  in  these 
associations,  according  to  a recent  work,  a tendency  to 
individuate  by  the  constitution  of  a nucleus. ^ The  same 
tendency  is  met  with  again  at  a higher  stage,  in  the  proto- 
phytes,  which,  once  having  quitted  the  parent  cell  by  way  of 
division,  remain  united  to  each  other  by  the  gelatinous 
substance  that  surrounds  them — also  in  those  protozoa 
which  begin  by  mingling  their  pseudopodia  and  end  by 
welding  themselves  together.  The  “coloniaF’  theory 
of  the  genesis  of  higher  organisms  is  well  known.  The 
protozoa,  consisting  of  one  single  cell,  are  supposed  to 
have  formed,  by  assemblage,  aggregates  which,  relating 
themselves  together  in  their  turn,  have  given  rise  to 
aggregates  of  aggregates;  so  organisms  more  and  more 
complicated,  and  also  more  and  more  differentiated, 
are  born  of  the  association  of  organisms  barely  differ- 
entiated and  elementary. 2 In  this  extreme  form,  the 

1 Cf.  a paper  written  (in  Russian)  by  Serkovski,  and  reviewed  in  the 
Annee  biologique,  1898,  p.  317. 

* Ed.  Perrier,  Les  Colonies  animates,  Paris,  1897  (2nd  edition). 


260 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


theory  is  open  to  grave  objections:  more  and  more  the 
idea  seems  to  be  gaining  ground,  that  polyzoism  is  an 
exceptional  and  abnormal  fact.*  But  it  is  none  the  less 
true  that  things  happen  as  if  every  higher  organism  was 
born  of  an  association  of  cells  that  have  subdmded  the 
work  between  them.  Very  probably  it  is  not  the  cells 
that  have  made  the  individual  by  means  of  association; 
it  is  rather  the  individual  that  has  made  the  cells  by  means 
of  dissbciation.^  But  this  itself  reveals  to  us,  in  the  genesis 
of  the  individual,  a haunting  of  the  social  form,  as  if  the 
individual  could  develop  only  on  the  condition  that  its  sub- 
stance should  be  spht  up  into  elements  ha\dng  themselves 
an  appearance  of  individuality  and  united  among  them- 
selves by  an  appearance  of  sociality.  There  are  numerous 
cases  in  which  nature  seems  to  hesitate  between  the  two 
forms,  and  to  ask  herself  if  she  shall  make  a society  or  an 
individual.  The  slightest  push  is  enough,  then,  to  make 
the  balance  weigh  on  one  side  or  the  other.  If  we  take 
an  infusorian  sufficiently  large,  such  as  the  Stentor,  and 
cut  it  into  two  halves  each  containing  a part  of  the  nu- 
cleus, each  of  the  two  halves  will  generate  an  independent 
Stentor;  but  if  we  divide  it  incompletely,  so  that  a pro- 
toplasmic communication  is  left  between  the  tw’O  halves, 
we  shall  see  them  execute,  each  from  its  side,  correspond- 
ing movements:  so  that  in  this  case  it  is  enough  that  a 
thread  should  be  maintained  or  cut  in  order  that  life 
should  affect  the  social  or  the  individual  form.  Thus, 
in  rudimentary  organisms  consisting  of  a single  cell,  we 
already  find  that  the  apparent  individuality  of  the  whole 

* Delage,  UHeredite,  2nd  edition,  Paris,  1903,  p.  97.  Cf.  by  the  same 
author,  ‘ ‘ La  Cbnception  polyzoique  des  etres”  {Revue  scientifique,  1896, 
pp.  641-653). 

* This  is  the  theory  maintained  by  Kunstler,  Delage,  Sedgwick,  Labb6, 
etc.  Its  development,  with  bibliographical  references,  will  be  found  in 
the  work  of  Busquet,  Les  etres  vivants,  Paris,  1899. 


III.l 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


261 


is  the  composition  of  an  undefined  number  of  potential 
individualities  potentially  associated.  But,  from  top  to 
bottom  of  the  series  of  living  beings,  the  same  law  is  mani- 
fested. And  it  is  this  that  we  express  when  we  say  that 
unity  and  multiplicity  are  categories  of  inert  matter, 
that  the  vital  impetus  is  neither  pure  unity  nor  pure 
multiplicity,  and  that  if  the  matter  to  which  it  communi- 
cates itself  compels  it  to  choose  one  of  the  two,  its  choice 
will  never  be  definitive:  it  will  leap  from  one  to  the  other 
indefinitely.  The  evolution  of  life  in  the  double  direction 
of  individuality  and  association  has  therefore  nothing 
accidental  about  it : it  is  due  to  the  very  nature  of  life. 

Essential  also  is  the  progress  to  reflextion.  If  our  analysis 
is  correct,  it  is  consciousness,  or  rather  supra-consciousness, 
that  is  at  the  origin  of  life.  Consciousness,  or  supra- 
consciousness,  is  the  name  for  the  rocket  whose  extin- 
guished fragments  fall  back  as  matter;  consciousness, 
again,  is  the  name  for  that  which  subsists  of  the  rocket 
itself,  passing  through  the  fragments  and  lighting  them 
up  into  organisms.  But  this  consciousness,  which  is  a 
need  of  creation,  is  made  manifest  to  itself  only  where 
creation  is  possible.  It  lies  dormant  when  life  is  con- 
demned to  automatism;  it  wakens  as  soon  as  the  possi- 
bility of  a choice  is  restored.  That  is  why,  in  organisms 
unprovided  with  a nervous  system,  it  varies  according 
to  the  power  of  locomotion  and  of  deformation  of  which 
the  organism  disposes.  And  in  animals  with  a nervous 
system,  it  is  proportional  to  the  complexity  of  the  switch- 
board on  which  the  paths  called  sensory  and  the  paths 
called  motor  intersect — that  is,  of  the  brain.  How  must 
this  solidarity  between  the  organism  and  consciousness 
be  understood? 

We  will  not  dwell  here  on  a point  that  we  have  dealt 
with  in  former  works.  Let  us  merely  recall  that  a theory 


262 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


such  as  that  according  to  which  consciousness  is  attached 
to  certain  neurons,  and  is  thrown  off  from  their  work  like 
a phosphorescence,  may  be  accepted  by  the  scientist  for  the 
detail  of  analysis;  it  is  a convenient  mode  of  expression. 
But  it  is  nothing  else.  In  reality,  a living  being  is  a centre 
of  action.  It  represents  a certain  sum  of  contingency 
entering  into  the  world,  that  is  to  say,  a certain  quantity 
of  possible  action — a quantity  variable  with  individuals 
and  especially  with  species.  The  nervous  system  of 
an  animal  marks  out  the  flexible  lines  on  which  its  action 
will  run  (although  the  potential  energy  is  accumulated 
in  the  muscles  rather  than  in  the  nervous  system  itself); 
its  nervous  centres  indicate,  by  their  development  and  their 
configuration,  the  more  or  less  extended  choice  it  will 
have  among  more  or  less  numerous  and  complicated 
actions.  Now,  since  the  awakening  of  consciousness  in  a 
living  creature  is  the  more  complete,  the  greater  the 
latitude  of  choice  allowed  to  it  and  the  larger  the  amount 
of  action  bestowed  upon  it,  it  is  clear  that  the  development 
of  consciousness  will  appear  to  be  dependent  on  that  of 
the  nervous  centres.  On  the  other  hand,  every  state  of 
consciousness  being,  in  one  aspect  of  it,  a question  put 
to  the  motor  activity  and  even  the  beginning  of  a reply, 
there  is  no  psychical  event  that  does  not  imply  the  entry 
into  play  of  the  cortical  mechanisms.  Everything  seems, 
therefore,  to  happen  as  if  consciousness  sprang  from  the 
brain,  and  as  if  the  detail  of  conscious  activity  were  mod- 
eled on  that  of  the  cerebral  activity.  In  reality,  conscious- 
ness does  not  spring  from  the  brain;  but  brain  and  con- 
sciousness correspond  because  equally  they  measure,  the 
one  by  the  complexity  of  its  structure  and  the  other  by 
the  intensity  of  its  awareness,  the  quantity  of  choice  that 
the  living  being  has  at  its  disposal. 

It  is  precisely  because  a cerebral  state  expresses  simply 


in.i  THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION  263 

what  there  is  of  nascent  action  in  the  corresponding 
psychical  state,  that  the  psychical  state  tells  us  more 
than  the  cerebral  state.  The  consciousness  of  a living 
being,  as  we  have  tried  to  prove  elsewhere,  is  inseparable 
from  its  brain  in  the  sense  in  which  a sharp  knife  is  in- 
separable from  its  edge:  the  brain  is  the  sharp  edge  by 
which  consciousness  cuts  into  the  compact  tissue  of  events, 
but  the  brain  is  no  more  coextensive  with  consciousness 
than  the  edge  is  with  the  knife.  Thus,  from  the  fact  that 
two  brains,  like  that  of  the  ape  and  that  of  the  man,  are 
very  much  alike,  we  cannot  conclude  that  the  correspond- 
ing consciousnesses  are  comparable  or  commensurable. 

But  the  two  brains  may  perhaps  be  less  alike  than 
we  suppose.  How  can  we  help  being  struck  by  the  fact 
that,  while  man  is  capable  of  learning  any  sort  of  exer- 
cise, of  constructing  any  sort  of  object,  in  short  of  ac- 
quiring any  kind  of  motor  habit  whatsoever,  the  faculty 
of  combining  new  movements  is  strictly  limited  in  the 
best-endowed  animal,  even  in  the  ape?  The  cerebral 
characteristic  of  man  is  there.  The  human  brain  is 
made,  like  every  brain,  to  set  up  motor  mechanisms 
and  to  enable  us  to  choose  among  them,  at  any  instant, 
the  one  we  shall  put  in  motion  by  the  pull  of  a trigger. 
But  it  differs  from  other  brains  in  this,  that  the  number 
of  mechanisms  it  can  set  up,  and  consequently  the  choice 
that  it  gives  as  to  which  among  them  shall  be  released, 
is  unlimited.  Now,  from  the  limited  to  the  unlimited 
there  is  all  the  distance  between  the  closed  and  the  open. 
It  is  not  a difference  of  degree,  but  of  kind. 

Radical  therefore,  also,  is  the  difference  between  ani- 
mal consciousness,  even  the  most  intelligent,  and  human 
consciousness.  For  consciousness  corresponds  exactly  to 
the  living  being’s  power  of  choice;  it  is  co-extensive  with 
the  fringe  of  possible  action  that  surrounds  the  real  action : 


264 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


consciousness  is  s^nionymous  with  invention  and  with 
freedom.  Now,  in  the  animal,  invention  is  never  any- 
thing but  a variation  on  the  theme  of  routine.  Shut  up 
in  the  habits  of  the  species,  it  succeeds,  no  doubt,  in  en- 
larging them  by  its  individual  initiative;  but  it  escapes 
automatism  only  for  an  instant,  for  just  the  time  to  create 
a new  automatism.  The  gates  of  its  prison  close  as  soon 
as  they  are  opened ; by  pulling  at  its  chain  it  succeeds  only 
in  stretching  it.  With  man,  consciousness  breaks  the 
chain.  In  man,  and  in  man  alone,  it  sets  itself  free.  The 
whole  history  of  life  until  man  has  been  that  of  the  effort  of 
consciousness  to  raise  matter,  and  of  the  more  or  less  com- 
plete overwhelming  of  consciousness  by  the  matter  which 
has  fallen  back  on  it.  The  enterprise  was  paradoxical, 
if,  indeed,  we  may  speak  here  otherwise  than  by  metaphor 
of  enterprise  and  of  effort.  It  w^as  to  create  with  matter, 
which  is  necessity  itself,  an  instrument  of  freedom,  to 
make  a machine  which  should  triumph  over  mechanism, 
and  to  use  the  determinism  of  nature  to  pass  through 
the  meshes  of  the  net  which  this  very  determinism  had 
spread.  But,  everywhere  except  in  man,  consciousness 
has  let  itself  be  caught  in  the  net  whose  meshes  it  tried 
to  pass  through:  it  has  remained  the  captive  of  the 
mechanisms  it  has  set  up.  Automatism,  which  it  tries 
to  draw  in  the  direction  of  freedom,  winds  about  it  and 
drags  it  down.  It  has  not  the  power  to  escape,  because 
the  energy  it  has  provided  for  acts  is  almost  all  employed 
in  maintaining  the  infinitely  subtle  and  essentially  unstable 
equilibrium  into  which  it  has  brought  matter.  But  man 
not  only  maintains  his  machine,  he  succeeds  in  using  it  as 
he  pleases.  Doubtless  he  owes  this  to  the  superiority  of 
his  brain,  which  enables  him  to  build  an  unlimited  number 
of  motor  mechanisms,  to  oppose  new  habits  to  the  old 
ones  unceasingly,  and,  by  dividing  automatism  against 


III.] 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


265 


itself,  to  rule  it.  He  owes  it  to  his  language,  which 
furnishes  consciousness  with  an  immaterial  body  in  which 
to  incarnate  itself  and  thus  exempts  it  from  dwelling 
exclusively  on  material  bodies,  whose  flux  would  soon 
drag  it  along  and  finally  swallow  it  up.  He  owes  it  to 
social  life,  which  stores  and  preserves  efforts  as  language 
stores  thought,  fixes  thereby  a mean  level  to  which  in- 
dividuals must  raise  themselves  at  the  outset,  and  by  this 
initial  stimulation  prevents  the  average  man  from  slum- 
bering and  drives  the  superior  man  to  mount  still  higher. 
But  our  brain,  our  society,  and  our  language  are  only  the 
external  and  various  signs  of  one  and  the  same  internal 
superiority.  They  tell,  each  after  its  manner,  the  unique, 
exceptional  success  which  life  has  won  at  a given  moment 
of  its  evolution.  They  express  the  difference  of  kind, 
and  not  only  of  degree,  which  separates  man  from  the  rest 
of  the  animal  world.  They  let  us  guess  that,  while  at  the 
end  of  the  vast  spring-board  from  which  life  has  taken  its 
leap,  all  the  others  have  stepped  down,  finding  the  cord 
stretched  too  high,  man  alone  has  cleared  the  obstacle. 

It  is  in  this  quite  special  sense  that  man  is  the  “term” 
and  the  “ end”  of  evolution.  Life,  we  have  said,  transcends 
finality  as  it  transcends  the  other  categories.  It  is  es- 
sentially a current  sent  through  matter,  drawing  from  it 
what  it  can.  There  has  not,  therefore,  properly  speaking, 
been  any  project  or  plan.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  abun- 
dantly evident  that  the  rest  of  nature  is  not  for  the  sake  of 
man : we  struggle  like  the  other  species,  we  have  struggled 
against  other  species.  Moreover,  if  the  evolution  of  life 
had  encountered  other  accidents  in  its  course,  if,  thereby, 
the  current  of  life  had  been  otherwise  divided,  we  should 
have  been,  physically  and  morally,  far  different  from  what 
we  are.  For  these  various  reasons  it  would  be  wrong  to 
regard  humanity,  such  as  we  have  it  before  our  eyes,  as 


266 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CIIAP. 


pre-figured  in  the  evolutionary  movement.  It  cannot 
even  be  said  to  be  the  outcome  of  the  whole  of  evolution, 
for  evolution  has  been  accomplished  on  several  divergent 
lines,  and  while  the  human  species  is  at  the  end  of  one  of 
them,  other  lines  have  been  followed  with  other  species 
at  their  end.  It  is  in  a quite  different  sense  that  we  hold 
humanity  to  be  the  ground  of  evolution. 

From  our  point  of  view,  life  appears  in  its  entirety 
as  an  iffimense  wave  which,  starting  from  a centre,  spreads 
outwards,  and  which  on  almost  the  whole  of  its  circum- 
ference is  stopped  and  converted  into  oscillation:  at  one 
single  point  the  obstacle  has  been  forced,  the  impulsion 
has  passed  freely.  It  is  this  freedom  that  the  human 
form  registers.  Everywhere  but  in  man,  consciousness 
has  had  to  come  to  a stand;  in  man  alone  it  has  kept  on 
its  way.  Man,  then,  continues  the  vital  movement  in- 
definitely, although  he  does  not  draw  along  wdth  him  all 
that  life  carries  in  itself.  On  other  lines  of  evolution  there 
have  traveled  other  tendencies  which  life  implied,  and  of 
which,  since  everything  interpenetrates,  man  has,  doubt- 
less, kept  something,  but  of  which  he  has  kept  only  very 
little.  It  is  as  if  a vague  and  formless  being,  whom  we  may 
call,  as  we  will,  man  or  superman,  had  sought  to  realize 
himself,  and  had  succeeded  only  by  abandoning  a part  of 
himself  on  the  way.  The  losses  are  represented  by  the  rest 
of  the  animal  world,  and  even  by  the  vegetable  world, 
at  least  in  w^hat  these  have  that  is  positive  and  above  the 
accidents  of  evolution. 

From  this  point  of  view,  the  discordances  of  which 
nature  offers  us  the  spectacle  are  singularly  weakened. 
The  organized  world  as  a whole  becomes  as  the  soil  on 
which  was  to  grow  either  man  himself  or  a being  who 
morally  must  resemble  him.  The  animals,  however 
distant  they  may  be  from  our  species,  however  hostile 


III.] 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


267 


to  it,  have  none  the  less  been  useful  traveling  companions, 
on  whom  consciousness  has  unloaded  whatever  encum- 
brances it  was  dragging  along,  and  who  have  enabled  it  to 
rise,  in  man,  to  heights  from  which  it  sees  an  unlimited 
horizon  open  again  before  it. 

It  is  true  that  it  has  not  only  abandoned  cumbersome 
baggage  on  the  way;  it  has  also  had  to  give  up  valuable 
goods.  Consciousness,  in  man,  is  pre-eminently  intellect. 
It  might  have  been,  it  ought,  so  it  seems,  to  have  been 
also  intuition.  Intuition  and  intellect  represent  two 
opposite  directions  of  the  work  of  consciousness:  intuition 
goes  in  the  very  direction  of  life,  intellect  goes  in  the  in- 
verse direction,  and  thus  finds  itself  naturally  in  accordance 
with  the  movement  of  matter.  A complete  and  perfect 
humanity  would  be  that  in  which  these  two  forms  of  con- 
scious activity  should  attain  their  full  development.  And, 
between  this  humanity  and  ours,  we  may  conceive  any 
number  of  possible  stages,  corresponding  to  all  the  degrees 
imaginable  of  intelligence  and  of  intuition.  In  this 
lies  the  part  of  contingency  in  the  mental  structure  of 
our  species.  A different  evolution  might  have  led  to 
a humanity  either  more  intellectual  still  or  more  intuitive. 
In  the  humanity  of  which  we  are  a part,  intuition  is,  in 
fact,  almost  completely  sacrificed  to  intellect.  It  seems 
that  to  conquer  matter,  and  to  reconquer  its  own  self, 
consciousness  has  had  to  exhaust  the  best  part  of  its  power. 
This  conquest,  in  the  particular  conditions  in  which  it  has 
been  accomplished,  has  required  that  consciousness  should 
adapt  itself  to  the  habits  of  matter  and  concentrate  all 
its  attention  on  them,  in  fact  determine  itself  more  espe- 
cially as  intellect.  Intuition  is  there,  however,  but  vague 
and  above  all  discontinuous.  It  is  a lamp  almost  ex- 
tinguished, which  only  glimmem  now  and  then,  for  a few 
moments  at  most.  But  it  glimmers  wherever  a vital 


268 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


interest  is  at  stake.  On  our  personality,  on  our  liberty, 
on  the  place  we  occupy  in  the  whole  of  nature,  on  our 
origin  and  perhaps  also  on  our  destiny,  it  throws  a light 
feeble  and  vacillating,  but  which  none  the  less  pierces  the 
darkness  of  the  night  in  which  the  intellect  leaves  us. 

These  fleeting  intuitions,  which  light  up  their  object 
only  at  distant  intervals,  philosophy  ought  to  seize,  first 
to  sustain  them,  then  to  expand  them  and  so  unite  them 
together,.  The  more  it  advances  in  this  work,  the  more 
will  it  perceive  that  intuition  is  mind  itself,  and,  in  a certain 
sense,  life  itself:  the  intellect  has  been  cut  out  of  it  by  a 
process  resembling  that  which  has  generated  matter. 
Thus  is  revealed  the  unity  of  the  spiritual  life.  We  recog- 
nize it  only  when  we  place  ourselves  in  intuition  in  order 
to  go  from  intuition  to  the  intellect,  for  from  the  intellect 
we  shall  never  pass  to  intuition. 

Philosophy  introduces  us  thus  into  the  spiritual  life. 
And  it  shows  us  at  the  same  time  the  relation  of  the  life 
of  the  spirit  to  that  of  the  body.  The  great  error  of  the 
doctrines  on  the  spirit  has  been  the  idea  that  by  isolating 
the  spiritual  life  from  all  the  rest,  by  suspending  it  in  space 
as  high  as  possible  above  the  earth,  they  were  placing  it 
beyond  attack,  as  if  they  were  not  thereby  simply  exposing 
it  to  be  taken  as  an  effect  of  mirage!  Certainly  they  are 
right  to  listen  to  conscience  when  conscience  affirms  human 
freedom;  but  the  intellect  is  there,  which  says  that  the 
cause  determines  its  effect,  that  like  conditions  like,  that 
all  is  repeated  and  that  all  is  given.  They  are  right  to 
believe  in  the  absolute  reality  of  the  person  and  in  his 
independence  toward  matter;  but  science  is  there,  which 
shows  the  interdependence  of  conscious  life  and  cerebral 
activity.  They  are  right  to  attribute  to  man  a privileged 
place  in  nature,  to  hold  that  the  distance  is  infinite  be- 
tween the  animal  and  man;  but  the  history  of  life  is  there. 


III.l 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


269 


which  makes  us  witness  the  genesis  of  species  by  gradual 
transformation,  and  seems  thus  to  reintegrate  man  in  ani- 
mality. When  a strong  instinct  assures  the  probability 
of  personal  survival,  they  are  right  not  to  close  their  ears 
to  its  voice;  but  if  there  exist  “souls”  capable  of  an  in- 
dependent life,  whence  do  they  come?  When,  how  and 
why  do  they  enter  into  this  body  which  we  see  arise, 
quite  naturally,  from  a mixed  cell  derived  from  the  bodies 
of  its  tw'O  parents?  All  these  questions  will  remain  un- 
answered, a philosophy  of  intuition  will  be  a negation 
of  science,  will  be  sooner  or  later  swept  away  by  science, 
if  it  does  not  resolve  to  see  the  life  of  the  body  just  where 
it  really  is,  on  the  road  that  leads  to  the  life  of  the  spirit. 
But  it  will  then  no  longer  have  to  do  with  definite  living 
beings.  Life  as  a whole,  from  the  initial  impulsion  that 
thrust  it  into  the  world,  will  appear  as  a wave  which  rises, 
and  which  is  opposed  by  the  descending  movement  of 
matter.  On  the  greater  part  of  its  surface,  at  different 
heights,  the  current  is  converted  by  matter  into  a vortex. 
At  one  point  alone  it  passes  freely,  dragging  with  it  the 
obstacle  which  will  weigh  on  its  progress  but  will  not  stop 
it.  At  this  point  is  humanity;  it  is  our  privileged  situation. 
On  the  other  hand,  this  rising  wave  is  consciousness, 
and,  like  all  consciousness,  it  includes  potentialities  with- 
out number  which  interpenetrate  and  to  which  con- 
sequently neither  the  category  of  unity  nor  that  of  multi- 
plicity is  appropriate,  made  as  they  both  are  for  inert 
matter.  The  matter  that  it  bears  along  with  it,  and  in 
the  interstices  of  which  it  inserts  itself,  alone  can  divide 
it  into  distinct  individualities.  On  flows  the  current, 
running  through  human  generations,  subdividing  itself 
into  individuals.  This  subdivision  was  vaguely  indicated 
in  it,  but  could  not  have  been  made  clear  without  matter. 
Thus  souls  are  continually  being  created,  which,  never- 


270 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


theless,  in  a certain  sense  pre-existed.  They  are  nothing 
else  than  the  little  rills  into  which  the  great  river  of  life 
divides  itself,  flowing  through  the  body  of  humanity. 
The  movement  of  the  stream  is  distinct  from  the  river  bed, 
although  it  must  adopt  its  winding  course.  Consciousness 
is  distinct  from  the  organism  it  animates,  although  it 
must  undergo  its  vicissitudes.  As  the  possible  actions 
which  a state  of  consciousness  indicates  are  at  every 
instant  beginning  to  be  carried  out  in  the  nervous  centres, 
the  brain  underlies  at  every  instant  the  motor  indications 
of  the  state  of  consciousness;  but  the  interdependency  of 
consciousness  and  brain  is  limited  to  this;  the  destiny 
of  consciousness  is  not  bound  up  on  that  account  wdth  the 
destiny  of  cerebral  matter.  Finally,  consciousness  is 
essentially  free;  it  is  freedom  itself;  but  it  cannot  pass 
through  matter  without  settling  on  it,  without  adapting 
itself  to  it:  this  adaptation  is  what  we  call  intellectuality; 
and  the  intellect,  turning  itself  back  toward  active,  that 
is  to  say  free,  consciousness,  naturally  makes  it  enter  into 
the  conceptual  forms  into  which  it  is  accustomed  to  see 
matter  fit.  It  will  therefore  alw^ays  perceive  freedom 
in  the  form  of  necessity;  it  will  always  neglect  the  part 
of  novelty  or  of  creation  inherent  in  the  free  act;  it  will 
always  substitute  for  action  itself  an  imitation  artificial, 
approximative,  obtained  by  compounding  the  old  with  the 
old  and  the  same  with  the  same.  Thus,  to  the  eyes  of  a 
philosophy  that  attempts  to  reabsorb  intellect  in  intuition, 
many  difficulties  vanish  or  become  light.  But  such  a 
doctrine  does  not  only  facilitate  speculation;  it  gives  us 
also  more  power  to  act  and  to  live.  For,  with  it,  we  feel 
ourselves  no  longer  isolated  in  humanity,  humanity  no 
longer  seems  isolated  in  the  nature  that  it  dominates. 
As  the  smallest  grain  of  dust  is  bound  up  with  our  entire 
solar  system,  drawn  along  with  it  in  that  undmded  move- 


III.] 


THE  MEANING  OF  EVOLUTION 


271 


ment  of  descent  which  is  materiality  itself,  so  all  organized 
beings,  from  the  humblest  to  the  highest,  from  the  first 
origins  of  life  to  the  time  in  which  we  are,  and  in  all  places 
as  in  all  times,  do  but  evidence  a single  impulsion,  the 
inverse  of  the  movement  of  matter,  and  in  itself  indivisible. 
All  the  living  hold  together,  and  all  yield  to  the  same 
tremendous  push.  The  animal  takes  its  stand  on  the 
plant,  man  bestrides  animality,  and  the  whole  of  humanit}^, 
in  space  and  in  time,  is  one  immense  army  galloping  beside 
and  before  and  behind  each  of  us  in  an  overwhelming 
charge  able  to  beat  down  every  resistance  and  clear  the 
most  formidable  obstacles,  perhaps  even  death. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPHICAL  MECHANISM  OF  THOUGHT  AND 
THE  MECHANISTIC  ILLUSION — A GLANCE  AT  THE 
HISTORY  OF  SYSTEMS  > — REAL  BECOMING  AND  FALSE 
EVOLUTIONISM. 

It  remains  for  us  to  examine  in  themselves  two  theoretical 
illusions  which  we  have  frequently  met  with  before,  but 
whose  consequences  rather  than  principle  have  hitherto 
concerned  us.  Such  is  the  object  of  the  present  chapter. 
It  will  afford  us  the  opportunity  of  removing  certain 
objections,  of  clearing  up  certain  misunderstandings, 
and,  above  all,  of  defining  more  precisely,  by  contrasting 
it  with  others,  a philosophy  which  sees  in  duration  the  very 
stuff  of  reality. 

Matter  or  mind,  reality  has  appeared  to  us  as  a per- 
petual becoming.  It  makes  itself  or  it  unmakes  itself, 
but  it  is  never  something  made.  Such  is  the  intuition 
that  we  have  of  mind  when  we  draw  aside  the  veil  which  is 
interposed  between  our  consciousness  and  ourselves. 
This,  also,  is  what  our  intellect  and  senses  themselves 
would  show  us  of  matter,  if  they  could  obtain  a direct 
and  disinterested  idea  of  it.  But,  preoccupied  before 
everything  with  the  necessities  of  action,  the  intellect, 

1 The  part  of  this  chapter  which  treats  of  the  history’  of  systems,  par- 
ticularly of  the  Greek  philosophy,  is  only  the  very  succinct  r4sum4  of 
views  that  we  developed  at  length,  from  1900  to  1904,  in  our  lectures 
at  the  College  de  France,  especially  in  a course  on  the  History  of  the 
Idea  of  Time  (1902-1903).  We  then  compared  the  mechanism  of  con- 
ceptual thought  to  that  of  the  cinematograph.  We  believe  the  com- 
parison will  be  useful  here. 


272 


IV.] 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING' 


273 


like  the  senses,  is  limited  to  taking,  at  intervals,  views 
that  are  instantaneous  and  by  that  very  fact  immobile 
of  the  becoming  of  matter.  Consciousness,  being  in  its 
turn  formed  on  the  intellect,  sees  clearly  of  the  inner  life 
what  is  already  made,  and  only  feels  confusedly  the  making. 
Thus,  we  pluck  out  of  duration  those  moments  that  interest 
us,  and  that  we  have  gathered  along  its  course.  These 
alone  we  retain.  And  we  are  right  in  so  doing,  while 
action  only  is  in  question.  But  when,  in  speculating  on 
the  nature  of  the  real,  we  go  on  regarding  it  as  our  practi- 
cal interest  requires  us  to  regard  it,  we  become  unable  to 
perceive  the  true  evolution,  the  radical  becoming.  Of 
becoming  we  perceive  only  states,  of  duration  only  in- 
stants, and  even  when  we  speak  of  duration  and  of  becom- 
ing, it  is  of  another  thing  that  we  are  thinking.  Such  is 
the  most  striking  of  the  two  illusions  we  wish  to  examine. 
It  consists  in  supposing  that  we  can  think  the  unstable 
by  means  of  the  stable,  the  moving  by  means  of  the  im- 
mobile. 

The  other  illusion  is  near  akin  to  the  first.  It  has  the 
same  origin,  being  also  due  to  the  fact  that  we  import 
into  speculation  a procedure  made  for  practice.  All 
action  aims  at  getting  something  that  we  feel  the  want  of, 
or  at  creating  something  that  does  not  yet  exist.  In  this 
very  special  sense,  it  fills  a void,  and  goes  from  the  empty 
to  the  full,  from  an  absence  to  a presence,  from  the  unreal 
to  the  real.  Now  the  unreality  which  is  here  in  question 
is  purely  relative  to  the  direction  in  w^hich  our  attention 
is  engaged,  for  w^e  are  immersed  in  realities  and  cannot 
pass  out  of  them;  only,  if  the  present  reality  is  not  the 
one  we  are  seeking,  we  speak  of  the  absence  of  this  sought- 
for  reality  wherever  we  find  the  presence  of  another.  We 
thus  express  what  we  have  as  a function  of  what  we  want. 
This  is  quite  legitimate  in  the  sphere  of  action.  But, 


274 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


whether  we  will  or  no,  we  keep  to  this  way  of  speaking, 
and  also  of  thinking,  when  we  speculate  on  the  nature 
of  things  independently  of  the  interest  they  have  for 
us.  Thus  arises  the  second  of  the  two  illusions.  We 
propose  to  examine  this  first.  It  is  due,  like  the  other, 
to  the  static  habits  that  our  intellect  contracts  when  it 
prepares  our  action  on  things.  Just  as  we  pass  through 
the  immobile  to  go  to  the  moving,  so  we  make  use  of 
theAroid  in  order  to  think  the  full. 

We  have  met  with  this  illusion  already  in  dealing  with 
the  fundamental  problem  of  knowledge.  The  question, 
we  then  said,  is  to  know  why  there  is  order,  and  not  dis- 
order, in  things.  But  the  question  has  meaning  only  if 
we  suppose  that  disorder,  understood  as  an  absence  of 
order,  is  possible,  or  imaginable,  or  conceivable.  Now, 
it  is  only  order  that  is  real;  but,  as  order  can  take  two 
forms,  and  as  the  presence  of  the  one  may  be  said  to  consist 
in  the  absence  of  the  other,  we  speak  of  disorder  whenever 
we  have  before  us  that  one  of  the  two  orders  for  which 
we  are  not  looking.  The  idea  of  disorder  is  then  entirely 
practical.  It  corresponds  to  the  disappointment  of  a 
certain  expectation,  and  it  does  not  denote  the  absence 
of  all  order,  but  only  the  presence  of  that  order  which  does 
not  offer  us  actual  interest.  So  that  whenever  we  try  to 
deny  order  completely,  absolutely,  we  find  that  we  are  leap- 
ing from  one  kind  of  order  to  the  other  indefinitely,  and 
that  the  supposed  suppression  of  the  one  and  the  other 
implies  the  presence  of  the  two.  Indeed,  if  we  go  on, 
and  persist  in  shutting  our  eyes  to  this  movement  of  the 
mind  and  all  it  involves,  we  are  no  longer  dealing  with  an 
idea;  all  that  is  left  of  disorder  is  a word.  Thus  the 
problem  of  knowledge  is  complicated,  and  possibly  made 
insoluble,  by  the  idea  that  order  fills  a void  and  that  its 
actual  presence  is  superposed  on  its  virtual  absence.  We 


IV.J 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING^ 


275 


go  from  absence  to  presence,  from  the  void  to  the  full,  in 
virtue  of  the  fundamental  illusion  of  our  understanding. 
That  is  the  error  of  which  we  noticed  one  consequence  in 
our  last  chapter.  As  we  then  anticipated,  we  must  come 
to  close  quarters  with  this  error,  and  finally  grapple  with 
it.  We  must  face  it  in  itself,  in  the  radically  false  con- 
ception which  it  implies  of  negation,  of  the  void  and  of  the 
nought.^ 

Philosophers  have  paid  little  attention  to  the  idea 
of  the  nought.  And  yet  it  is  often  the  hidden  spring, 
the  invisible  mover  of  philosophical  thinking.  From 
the  first  awakening  of  reflection,  it  is  this  that  pushes 
to  the  fore,  right  under  the  eyes  of  consciousness,  the 
torturing  problems,  the  questions  that  we  cannot  gaze 
at  without  feeling  giddy  and  bewildered.  I have  no 
sooner  commenced  to  philosophize  than  I ask  myself 
why  I exist;  and  when  I take  account  of  the  intimate 
connection  in  which  I stand  to  the  rest  of  the  universe, 
the  difficulty  is  only  pushed  back,  for  I want  to  know 
why  the  universe  exists;  and  if  I refer  the  universe  to  a 
Principle  immanent  or  transcendent  that  supports  it  or 
creates  it,  my  thought  rests  on  this  principle  only  a few 
moments,  for  the  same  problem  recurs,  this  time  in  its 
full  breadth  and  generality:  Whence  comes  it,  and  how 
can  it  be  understood,  that  an}i;hing  exists?  Even  here,  in 
the  present  work,  when  matter  has  been  defined  as  a kind 
of  descent,  this  descent  as  the  interruption  of  a rise,  this 
rise  itself  as  a growth,  when  finally  a Principle  of  creation 
has  been  put  at  the  base  of  things,  the  same  question 
springs  up:  How — why  does  this  principle  exist  rather 
than  nothing? 

Now,  if  I push  these  questions  aside  and  go  straight 

1 The  analysis  of  the  idea  of  the  nought  which  we  give  here  (pp.  275- 
298)  has  appeared  before  in  the  Revue  pMlosophique  (November  1906). 


276 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  what  hides  behind  them,  this  is  what  I find: — Exist- 
ence appears  to  me  like  a conquest  over  nought.  I say 
to  myself  that  there  might  be,  that  indeed  there  ought  to 
be,  nothing,  and  I then  wonder  that  there  is  something. 
Or  I represent  all  reality  extended  on  nothing  as  on  a 
carpet : at  first  was  nothing,  and  being  has  come  by  super- 
addition to  it.  Or,  yet  again,  if  something  has  always 
existed,  nothing  must  always  have  served  as  its  substratum 
or  repeptacle,  and  is  therefore  eternally  prior.  A glass 
may  have  always  been  full,  but  the  liquid  it  contains  never- 
theless fills  a void.  In  the  same  way,  being  may  have 
always  been  there,  but  the  nought  which  is  filled,  and,  as 
it  were,  stopped  up  by  it,  pre-exists  for  it  none  the  less,  if 
not  in  fact  at  least  in  right.  In  short,  I cannot  get  rid  of 
the  idea  that  the  full  is  an  embroidery  on  the  canvas 
of  the  void,  that  being  is  superimposed  on  nothing,  and 
that  in  the  idea  of  “nothing”  there  is  less  than  in  that  of 
“something.”  Hence  all  the  mystery. 

It  is  necessary  that  this  mystery  should  be  cleared  up. 
It  is  more  especially  necessary,  if  we  put  duration  and 
free  choice  at  the  base  of  things.  For  the  dLdain  of 
metaphysics  for  all  reality  that  endures  comes  precisely 
from  this,  that  it  reaches  being  only  by  passing  through 
“not-being,”  and  that  an  existence  which  endures  seems 
to  it  not  strong  enough  to  conquer  non-existence  and  itself 
posit  itself.  It  is  for  this  reason  especially  that  it  is  in- 
clined to  endow  true  being  with  a logical,  and  not  a psy- 
chological nor  a physical  existence.  For  the  nature  of  a 
purely  logical  existence  is  such  that  it  seems  to  be  self- 
sufficient  and  to  posit  itself  by  the  effect  alone  of  the  force 
immanent  in  truth.  If  I ask  myself  why  bodies  or  minds 
exist  rather  than  nothing,  I find  no  answer;  but  that  a 
logical  principle,  such  as  A = A,  should  have  the  power 
of  creating  itself,  triumphing  over  the  nought  through- 


THE  IDEA  OF  ^NOTHING’ 


277 


rv.j 

out  eternity,  seems  to  me  natural.  A circle  drawn  with 
chalk  on  a blackboard  is  a thing  which  needs  explanation: 
this  entirely  physical  existence  has  not  by  itself  where- 
with to  vanquish  non-existence.  But  the  “ logical  essence’^ 
of  the  circle,  that  is  to  say,  the  possibility  of  drawing  it 
according  to  a certain  law — in  short,  its  definition — is  a 
thing  which  appears  to  me  eternal:  it  has  neither  place 
nor  date;  for  nowhere,  at  no  moment,  has  the  drawing 
of  a circle  begun  to  be  possible.  Suppose,  then,  that  the 
principle  on  which  all  things  rest,  and  which  all  things 
manifest  possesses  an  existence  of  the  same  nature  as  that 
of  the  definition  of  the  circle,  or  as  that  of  the  axiom 
A = A:  the  mystery  of  existence  vanishes,  for  the  being 
that  is  at  the  base  of  everything  posits  itself  then  in  eternity, 
as  logic  itself  does.  True,  it  will  cost  us  rather  a heavy 
sacrifice:  if  the  principle  of  all  things  exists  after  the 
manner  of  a logical  axiom  or  of  a mathematical  defini- 
tion, the  things  themselves  must  go  forth  from  this  principle 
like  the  applications  of  an  axiom  or  the  consequences  of  a 
definition,  and  there  will  no  longer  be  place,  either  in  the 
things  nor  in  their  principle,  for  efficient  causality  under- 
stood in  the  sense  of  a free  choice.  Such  are  precisely 
the  conclusions  of  a doctrine  like  that  of  Spinoza,  or  even 
that  of  Leibniz,  and  such  indeed  has  been  their  genesis. 

Now,  if  we  could  prove  that  the  idea  of  the  nought, 
in  the  sense  in  which  we  take  it  when  we  oppose  it  to 
that  of  existence,  is  a pseudo-idea,  the  problems  that  are 
raised  around  it  would  become  pseudo-problems.  The 
hypothesis  of  an  absolute  that  acts  freely,  that  in  an 
eminent  sense  endures,  would  no  longer  raise  up  intel- 
lectual prejudices.  The  road  would  be  cleared  for  a 
philosophy  more  nearly  approaching  intuition,  and  which 
would  no  longer  ask  the  same  sacrifices  of  common 
sense. 


278 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


Let  us  then  see  what  we  are  thinking  about  when  we 
speak  of  “Nothing.”  To  represent  “Nothing,”  we  must 
either  imagine  it  or  conceive  it.  Let  us  examine  what 
this  image  or  this  idea  may  be.  First,  the  image. 

I am  going  to  close  my  eyes,  stop  my  ears,  extinguish 
one  by  one  the  sensations  that  come  to  me  from  the  outer 
world.  Now  it  is  done;  all  my  perceptions  vanish,  the 
material  universe  sinks  into  silence  and  the  night. — I 
subsist,  however,  and  cannot  help  myself  subsisting.  I 
am  still  there,  with  the  organic  sensations  which  come  to 
me  from  the  surface  and  from  the  interior  of  my  body, 
with  the  recollections  which  my  past  perceptions  have 
left  behind  them — nay,  with  the  impression,  most  positive 
and  full,  of  the  void  I have  just  made  about  me.  How  can 
I suppress  all  this?  How  eliminate  myself?  I can  even, 
it  may  be,  blot  out  and  forget  my  recollections  up  to  my 
immediate  past;  but  at  least  I keep  the  consciousness 
of  my  present  reduced  to  its  extremest  poverty,  that  is  to 
say,  of  the  actual  state  of  my  body.  I will  try,  however, 
to  do  away  even  with  this  consciousness  itself.  I will 
reduce  more  and  more  the  sensations  my  body  sends  in  to 
me:  now  they  are  almost  gone;  now  they  are  gone,  they 
have  disappeared  in  the  night  where  all  things  else  have 
already  died  away.  But  no!  At  the  very  instant  that 
my  consciousness  is  extinguished,  another  consciousness 
lights  up — or  rather,  it  was  already  alight:  it  had  arisen 
the  instant  before,  in  order  to  witness  the  extinction  of  the 
first;  for  the  first  could  disappear  only  for  another  and 
in  the  presence  of  another.  I see  myself  annihilated  only 
if  I have  already  resuscitated  myself  by  an  act  which  is 
positive,  however  involuntary  and  unconscious.  So,  do 
what  I will,  I am  always  perceiving  something,  either  from 
without  or  from  within.  When  I no  longer  know  anjdhing 
of  external  objects,  it  is  because  I have  taken  refuge  in 


IV.l 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING^ 


279 


the  consciousness  that  I have  of  myself.  If  I abolish  this 
inner  self,  its  very  abolition  becomes  an  object  for  an 
imaginary  self  which  now  perceives  as  an  external  object 
the  self  that  is  dying  away.  Be  it  external  or  internal, 
some  object  there  always  is  that  my  imagination  is  repre- 
senting. My  imagination,  it  is  true,  can  go  from  one  to 
the  other,  I can  by  turns  imagine  a nought  of  external 
perception  or  a nought  of  internal  perception,  but  not  both 
at  once,  for  the  absence  of  one  consists,  at  bottom,  in  the 
exclusive  presence  of  the  other.  But,  from  the  fact  that 
two  relative  noughts  are  imaginable  in  turn,  we  wrongly 
conclude  that  they  are  imaginable  together:  a conclusion 
the  absurdity  of  which  must  be  obvious,  for  w^e  cannot 
imagine  a nought  without  perceiving,  at  least  confusedly, 
that  we  are  imagining  it,  consequently  that  we  are  acting, 
that  we  are  thinking,  and  therefore  that  something  still 
subsists. 

The  image,  then,  properly  so  called,  of  a suppression 
of  everything  is  never  formed  by  thought.  The  effort 
by  which  we  strive  to  create  this  image  simply  ends  in 
making  us  swing  to  and  fro  between  the  vision  of  an  outer 
and  that  of  an  inner  reality.  In  this  coming  and  going 
of  our  mind  between  the  without  and  the  within,  there  is 
a point,  at  equal  distance  from  both,  in  wFich  it  seems  to 
us  that  we  no  longer  perceive  the  one,  and  that  we  do  not 
yet  perceive  the  other:  it  is  there  that  the  image  of 
“Nothing’’  is  formed.  In  reality,  w^e  then  perceive  both, 
having  reached  the  point  vrhere  the  two  terms  come  to- 
gether, and  the  image  of  Nothing,  so  defined,  is  an  image 
full  of  things,  an  image  that  includes  at  once  that  of  the 
subject  and  that  of  the  object  and,  besides,  a perpetual 
leaping  from  one  to  the  other  and  the  refusal  ever  to  come 
to  rest  finally  on  either.  Evidently  this  is  not  the  nothing 
that  we  can  oppose  to  being,  and  put  before  or  be- 


280 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


ICHAP. 


neath  being,  for  it  already  includes  existence  in  general. 

But  we  shall  be  told  that,  if  the  representation  of  Noth- 
ing, visible  or  latent,  enters  into  the  reasonings  of  philoso- 
phers, it  is  not  as  an  image,  but  as  an  idea.  It  may  be 
agreed  that  we  do  not  imagine  the  annihilation  of  every- 
thing, but  it  will  be  claimed  that  we  can  conceive  it.  We 
conceive  a polygon  with  a thousand  sides,  said  Descartes, 
although  we  do  not  see  it  in  imagination:  it  is  enough  that 
we  c^n  clearly  represent  the  possibility  of  constructing  it. 
So  with  the  idea  of  the  annihilation  of  everything.  Noth- 
ing simpler,  it  will  be  said,  than  the  procedure  by  which 
we  construct  the  idea  of  it.  There  is,  in  fact,  not  a single 
object  of  our  experience  that  we  cannot  suppose  annihilated. 
Extend  this  annihilation  of  a first  object  to  a second, 
then  to  a third,  and  so  on  as  long  as  you  please:  the  nought 
is  the  limit  toward  which  the  operation  tends.  And  the 
nought  so  defined  is  the  annihilation  of  everything.  That 
is  the  theory.  We  need  only  consider  it  in  this  form  to  see 
the  absurdity  it  involves. 

An  idea  constructed  by  the  mind  is  an  idea  only  if 
its  pieces  are  capable  of  coexisting;  it  is  reduced  to  a 
mere  word  if  the  elements  that  we  bring  together  to  com- 
pose it  are  driven  away  as  fast  as  we  assemble  them. 
When  I have  defined  the  circle,  I easily  represent  a black 
or  a white  circle,  a circle  in  cardboard,  iron,  or  brass,  a 
transparent  or  an  opaque  circle — but  not  a square  circle, 
because  the  law  of  the  generation  of  the  circle  excludes 
the  possibility  of  defining  this  figure  with  straight  lines. 
So  my  mind  can  represent  any  existing  thing  whatever 
as  annihilated; — but  if  the  annihilation  of  anything  by 
the  mind  is  an  operation  whose  mechanism  implies  that  it 
works  on  a part  of  the  whole,  and  not  on  the  whole  itself, 
then  the  extension  of  such  an  operation  to  the  totality 
of  things  becomes  self-contradictory  and  absurd,  and  the 


IV.l 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING’ 


281 


idea  of  an  annihilation  of  eveiything  presents  the  same 
character  as  that  of  a square  circle:  it  is  not  an  idea,  it 
is  only  a word.  So  let  us  examine  more  closely  the 
mechanism  of  the  operation. 

In  fact,  the  object  suppressed  is  either  external  or 
internal:  it  is  a thing  or  it  is  a state  of  consciousness. 
Let  us  consider  the  first  case.  I annihilate  in  thought 
an  external  object:  in  the  place  where  it  was,  there  is 
no  longer  anything. — No  longer  anything  of  that  object, 
of  course,  but  another  object  has  taken  its  place:  there  is 
no  absolute  void  in  nature.  But  admit  that  an  absolute 
void  is  possible  : it  is  not  of  that  void  that  I am  thinking 
when  I say  that  the  object,  once  annihilated,  leaves  its 
place  unoccupied;  for  by  the  hypothesis  it  is  a place,  that 
is  a void  limited  by  precise  outlines,  or,  in  other  words,  a 
kind  of  thing.  The  void  of  which  I speak,  therefore,  is,  at 
bottom,  only  the  absence  of  some  definite  object,  which 
was  here  at  first,  is  now  elsewhere  and,  in  so  far  as  it  is  no 
longer  in  its  former  place,  leaves  behind  it,  so  to  speak,  the 
void  of  itself.  A being  unendowed  with  memory  or 
prevision  would  not  use  the  words  “void”  or  “nought;” 
he  would  express  only  what  is  and  what  is  perceived; 
now,  what  is,  and  what  is  perceived,  is  the  presence  of 
one  thing  or  of  another,  never  the  absence  of  anything. 
There  is  absence  only  for  a being  capable  of  remem- 
bering and  expecting.  He  remembered  an  object,  and 
perhaps  expected  to  encounter  it  again;  he  finds  another, 
and  he  expresses  the  disappointment  of  his  expectation 
(an  expectation  sprung  from  recollection)  by  saying  that 
he  no  longer  finds  anything,  that  he  encounters  “nothing.” 
Even  if  he  did  not  expect  to  encounter  the  object,  it  is  a 
possible  expectation  of  it,  it  is  still  the  falsification  of  his 
eventual  expectation  that  he  expresses  by  saying  that  the 
object  is  no  longer  where  it  was.  What  he  perceives  in 


282 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


reality,  what  he  will  succeed  in  effectively  thinking  of, 
is  the  presence  of  the  old  object  in  a new  place  or  that  of  a 
new  object  in  the  old  place;  the  rest,  all  that  is  expressed 
negatively  by  such  words  as  ‘‘nought”  or  the  “void,”  is 
not  so  much  thought  as  feeling,  or,  to  speak  more  exactly, 
it  is  the  tinge  that  feeling  gives  to  thought.  The  idea 
of  annihilation  or  of  partial  nothingness  is  therefore 
formed  here  in  the  course  of  the  substitution  of  one 
thing  ^for  another,  whenever  this  substitution  is  thought 
by  a mind  that  would  prefer  to  keep  the  old  thing  in 
the  place  of  the  new,  or  at  least  conceives  this  prefer- 
ence as  possible.  The  idea  implies  on  the  subjective 
side  a preference,  on  the  objective  side  a substitution, 
and  is  nothing  else  but  a combination  of,  or  rather  an 
interference  between,  this  feeling  of  preference  and  this 
idea  of  substitution. 

Such  is  the  mechanism  of  the  operation  by  which  our 
mind  annihilates  an  object  and  succeeds  in  represent- 
ing in  the  external  world  a partial  nought.  Let  us  now 
see  how  it  represents  it  within  itself.  We  find  in  our- 
selves phenomena  that  are  produced,  and  not  phenomena 
that  are  not  produced.  I experience  a sensation  or  an 
emotion,  I conceive  an  idea,  I form  a resolution:  my 
consciousness  perceives  these  facts,  w’hich  are  so  many 
presences,  and  there  is  no  moment  in  which  facts  of  this 
kind  are  not  present  to  me.  I can,  no  doubt,  interrupt 
by  thought  the  course  of  my  inner  life;  I may  suppose 
that  I sleep  without  dreaming  or  that  I have  ceased  to 
exist;  but  at  the  very  instant  w^hen  I make  this  supposi- 
tion, I conceive  myself,  I imagine  myself  w^atching  over  my 
slumber  or  surviving  my  annihilation,  and  I give  up  per- 
ceiving myself  from  within  only  by  taking  refuge  in  the 
perception  of  myself  from  without.  That  is  to  say  that 
here  again  the  full  always  succeeds  the  full,  and  that  an 


THE  IDEA  OF  ' NOTHING’ 


283 


IV. 1 

intelligence  that  was  only  intelligence^  that  had  neither 
regret  nor  desire,  whose  movement  was  governed  by 
the  movement  of  its  object,  could  not  even  conceive  an 
absence  or  a void.  The  conception  of  a void  arises 
here  when  consciousness,  lagging  behind  itself,  remains 
attached  to  the  recollection  of  an  old  state  when  another 
state  is  already  present.  It  is  only  a comparison  be- 
tween what  is  and  what  could  or  ought  to  be,  between 
the  full  and  the  full.  In  a word,  whether  it  be  a void  of 
matter  or  a void  of  consciousness,  the  representation  of 
the  void  is  always  a representation  which  is  full  and  which 
resolves  itself  on  analysis  into  two  positive  elements:  the  idea, 
distinct  or  confused,  of  a substitution,  and  the  feeling,  ex- 
perienced or  imagined,  of  a desire  or  a regret. 

It  follows  from  this  double  analysis  that  the  idea  of 
the  absolute  nought,  in  the  sense  of  the  annihilation  of 
everjdhing,  is  a self-destructive  idea,  a pseudo-idea,  a 
mere  word.  If  suppressing  a thing  consists  in  replacing 
it  by  another,  if  thinking  the  absence  of  one  thing  is 
only  possible  by  the  more  or  less  explicit  representation 
of  the  presence  of  some  other  thing,  if,  in  short,  anni- 
hilation signifies  before  anything  else  substitution,  the 
idea  of  an  “annihilation  of  everything”  is  as  absurd  as 
that  of  a square  circle.  The  absurdity  is  not  obvious, 
because  there  exists  no  particular  object  that  cannot  be 
supposed  annihilated;  then,  from  the  fact  that  there  is 
nothing  to  prevent  each  thing  in  turn  being  suppressed  in 
thought,  we  conclude  that  it  is  possible  to  suppose  them  sup- 
pressed altogether.  We  do  not  see  that  suppressing  each 
thing  in  turn  consists  precisely  in  replacing  it  in  proportion 
and  degree  by  another,  and  therefore  that  the  suppression 
of  absolutely  everything  implies  a downright  contradic- 
tion in  terms,  since  the  operation  consists  in  destroy- 
ing the  very  condition  that  makes  the  operation  possible. 


284 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


But  the  illusion  is  tenacious.  Though  suppressing 
one  thing  consists  in  fact  in  substituting  another  for  it, 
we  do  not  conclude,  we  are  unwilling  to  conclude,  that 
the  annihilation  of  a thing  in  thought  implies  the  sub- 
stitution in  thought  of  a new  thing  for  the  old.  We 
agree  that  a thing  is  always  replaced  by  another  thing, 
and  even  that  our  mind  cannot  think  the  disappearance 
of  an  object,  external  or  internal,  without  thinking — 
undel*  an  indeterminate  and  confused  form,  it  is  true — 
that  another  object  is  substituted  for  it.  But  we  add 
that  the  representation  of  a disappearance  is  that  of  a 
phenomenon  that  is  produced  in  space  or  at  least  in  time, 
that  consequently  it  still  implies  the  calling  up  of  an 
image,  and  that  it  is  precisely  here  that  we  have  to  free 
ourselves  from  the  imagination  in  order  to  appeal  to 
the  pure  understanding.  “Let  us  therefore  no  longer 
speak,”  it  will  be  said,  “of  disappearance  or  annihilation; 
these  are  physical  operations.  Let  us  no  longer  repre- 
sent the  object  A as  annihilated  or  absent.  Let  us  say 
simply  that  we  think  it  “non-existent.”  To  annihilate 
it  is  to  act  on  it  in  time  and  perhaps  also  in  space;  it 
is  to  accept,  consequently,  the  condition  of  spatial  and 
temporal  existence,  to  accept  the  universal  connection 
that  binds  an  object  to  all  others,  and  prevents  it  from 
disappearing  without  being  at  the  same  time  replaced. 
But  w^e  can  free  ourselves  from  these  conditions;  all 
that  is  necessary  is  that  by  an  effort  of  abstraction  w’e 
should  call  up  the  idea  of  the  object  A by  itself,  that 
we  should  agree  first  to  consider  it  as  existing,  and  then, 
by  a stroke  of  the  intellectual  pen,  blot  out  the  clause. 
The  object  will  then  be,  by  our  decree,  non-existent.” 

Very  well,  let  us  strike  out  the  clause.  We  must 
not  suppose  that  our  pen-stroke  is  self-sufficient — that 
it  can  be  isolated  from  the  rest  of  things.  We  shall  see 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING^ 


285 


iv.l 

that  it  carries  with  it,  whether  we  will  or  no,  all  that  we 
tried  to  abstract  from.  Let  us  compare  together  the  two 
ideas — the  object  A supposed  to  exist,  and  the  same 
object  supposed  “non-existent.’’ 

The  idea  of  the  object  A,  supposed  existent,  is  the 
representation  pure  and  simple  of  the  object  A,  for  we 
cannot  represent  an  object  without  attributing  to  it, 
by  the  very  fact  of  representing  it,  a certain  reality.  Be- 
tween thinking  an  object  and  thinking  it  existent,  there 
is  absolutely  no  difference.  Kant  has  put  this  point 
in  clear  light  in  his  criticism  of  the  ontological  argument. 
Then,  what  is  it  to  think  the  object  A non-existent?  To 
represent  it  non-existent  cannot  consist  in  withdrawing 
from  the  idea  of  the  object  A the  idea  of  the  attribute 
“existence,”  since,  I repeat,  the  representation  of  the 
existence  of  the  object  is  inseparable  from  the  representation 
of  the  object,  and  indeed  is  one  with  it.  To  represent  the 
object  A non-existent  can  only  consist,  therefore,  in  adding 
something  to  the  idea  of  this  object:  we  add  to  it,  in 
fact,  the  idea  of  an  exclusion  of  this  particular  object  by 
actual  reality  in  general.  To  think  the  object  A as  non- 
existent is  first  to  think  the  object  and  consequently  to 
think  it  existent;  it  is  then  to  think  that  another  reality, 
with  which  it  is  incompatible,  supplants  it.  Only,  it  is 
useless  to  represent  this  latter  reality  explicitly;  we  are 
not  concerned  with  what  it  is;  it  is  enough  for  us  to  know 
that  it  drives  out  the  object  A,  which  alone  is  of  interest 
to  us.  That  is  why  we  think  of  the  expulsion  rather  than 
of  the  cause  which  expels.  But  this  cause  is  none  the 
less  present  to  the  mind;  it  is  there  in  the  implicit  state, 
that  which  expels  being  inseparable  from  the  expulsion 
as  the  hand  which  drives  the  pen  is  inseparable  from  the 
pen-stroke.  The  act  by  which  we  declare  an  object 
unreal  therefore  posits  the  existence  of  the  real  in  general. 


286 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


In  other  words,  to  represent  an  object  as  unreal  cannot 
consist  in  depriving  it  of  every  kind  of  existence,  since  the 
representation  of  an  object  is  necessarily  that  of  the  object 
existing.  Such  an  act  consists  simply  in  declaring  that  the 
existence  attached  by  our  mind  to  the  object,  and  in- 
separable from  its  representation,  is  an  existence  wholly 
ideal — that  of  a mere  possible.  But  the  “ideality’’  of  an 
object,  and  the  “simple  possibility”  of  an  object,  have 
meaning  only  in  relation  to  a reality  that  drives  into  the 
region  of  the  ideal,  or  of  the  merely  possible,  the  object 
which  is  incompatible  with  it.  Suppose  the  stronger  and 
more  substantial  existence  annihilated : it  is  the  attenuated 
and  weaker  existence  of  the  merely  possible  that  becomes 
the  reality  itself,  and  you  will  no  longer  be  representing 
the  object,  then,  as  non-existent.  In  other  words,  and 
however  strange  our  assertion  may  seem,  there  is  more, 
and  not  less,  in  the  idea  of  an  object  conceived  as  ‘^not  exist- 
ing” than  in  the  idea  of  this  same  object  conceived  as  “exist- 
ing” ; for  the  idea  of  the  object  ^‘not  existing”  is  necessarily 
the  idea  of  the  object  existing”  with,  in  addition,  the  repre- 
sentation of  an  exclusion  of  this  object  by  the  actual  reality 
taken  in  block. 

But  it  will  be  claimed  that  our  idea  of  the  non-existent 
is  not  yet  sufficiently  cut  loose  from  every  imaginative 
element,  that  it  is  not  negative  enough.  “No  matter,” 
we  shall  be  told,  “though  the  unreality  of  a thing  consist 
in  its  exclusion  by  other  things ; we  want  to  know  nothing 
about  that.  Are  we  not  free  to  direct  our  attention  where 
we  please  and  how  we  please?  Well  then,  after  having 
called  up  the  idea  of  an  object,  and  thereby,  if  you  will 
have  it  so,  supposed  it  existent,  we  shall  merely  couple 
to  our  affirmation  a ‘ not,’  and  that  will  be  enough  to  make 
us  think  it  non-existent.  This  is  an  operation  entirely 
intellectual,  independent  of  what  happens  outside  the 


IV.J 


THE  IDEA  OF  ^ NOTHING^ 


287 


mind.  So  let  us  think  of  anything  or  let  us  think  of  the 
totality  of  things,  and  then  write  in  the  margin  of  our 
thought  the  ‘not,’  which  prescribes  the  rejection  of  what  it 
contains:  we  annihilate  everything  mentally  by  the 
mere  fact  of  decreeing  its  annihilation.” — Here  we  have 
it!  The  very  root  of  all  the  difficulties  and  errors  with 
which  we  are  confronted  is  to  be  found  in  the  power  ascribed 
here  to  negation.  We  represent  negation  as  exactly 
symmetrical  with  affirmation.  We  imagine  that  negation, 
like  affirmation,  is  self-sufficient.  So  that  negation,  like 
affirmation,  would  have  the  power  of  creating  ideas,  with 
this  sole  difference  that  they  would  be  negative  ideas. 
By  affirming  one  thing,  and  then  another,  and  so  on  ad 
infinitum,  I form  the  idea  of  “All;”  so,  by  denying  one 
thing  and  then  other  things,  finally  by  denying  All,  I 
arrive  at  the  idea  of  Nothing. — But  it  is  just  this  assimila- 
tion which  is  arbitrary.  We  fail  to  see  that  while  affirma- 
tion is  a complete  act  of  the  mind,  which  can  succeed  in 
building  up  an  idea,  negation  is  but  the  half  of  an  intel- 
lectual act,  of  which  the  other  half  is  understood,  or  rather 
put  off  to  an  indefinite  future.  We  fail  to  see  that  while 
affirmation  is  a purely  intellectual  act,  there  enters  into 
negation  an  element  which  is  not  intellectual,  and  that  it 
is  precisely  to  the  intrusion  of  this  foreign  element  that 
negation  owes  its  specific  character. 

To  begin  with  the  second  point,  let  us  note  that  to 
deny  always  consists  in  setting  aside  a possible  affirma- 
tion.* Negation  is  only  an  attitude  taken  by  the  mind 
toward  an  eventual  affirmation.  When  I say,  “This 
table  is  black,”  I am  speaking  of  the  table;  I have  seen 

» Kant,  Critique  of  Pure  Reason,  2nd  edition,  p.  737 : ‘ ‘ From  the  point 
of  view  of  our  knowledge  in  general  . . . the  peculiar  function  of 
negative  propositions  is  simply  to  prevent  error.”  Cf.  Sigwart,  Logik, 
2nd  edition,  vol.  i.  pp.  150  IT. 


288 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


it  black,  and  my  judgment  expresses  what  I have  seen. 
But  if  I say,  “This  table  is  not  white,”  I surely  do  not 
express  something  I have  perceived,  for  I have  seen  black, 
and  not  an  absence  of  white.  It  is  therefore,  at  bottom, 
not  on  the  table  itself  that  I bring  this  judgment  to  bear, 
but  rather  on  the  judgment  that  would  declare  the  table 
white.  I judge  a judgment  and  not  the  table.  The 
proposition,  “This  table  is  not  w’hite,”  implies  that  you 
migjit  believe  it  white,  that  you  did  believe  it  such,  or  that 
I was  going  to  believe  it  such.  I warn  you  or  myself  that 
this  judgment  is  to  be  replaced  by  another  (which,  it  is 
true,  I leave  undetermined).  Thus,  w^hile  affirmation 
bears  directly  on  the  thing,  negation  aims  at  the  thing  only 
indirectly,  through  an  interposed  affirmation.  An  affirma- 
tive proposition  expresses  a judgment  on  an  object;  a 
negative  proposition  expresses  a judgment  on  a judgment. 
Negation,  therefore,  differs  from  affirmation  'properly  so 
called  in  that  it  is  an  affirmation  of  the  second  degree: 
it  affirms  something  of  an  affirmation  which  itself  affirms 
something  of  an  object. 

But  it  follows  at  once  from  this  that  negation  is  not 
the  work  of  pure  mind,  I should  say  of  a mind  placed 
before  objects  and  concerned  with  them  alone.  When 
we  deny,  we  give  a lesson  to  others,  or  it  may  be  to  our- 
selves. We  take  to  task  an  interlocutor,  real  or  possible, 
whom  we  find  mistaken  and  "whom  we  put  on  his  guard. 
He  was  affirming  something:  we  tell  him  he  ought  to 
affirm  something  else  (though  without  specifying  the 
affirmation  which  must  be  substituted).  There  is  no 
longer  then,  simply,  a person  and  an  object;  there  is, 
in  face  of  the  object,  a person  speaking  to  a person,  oppos- 
ing him  and  aiding  him  at  the  same  time;  there  is  a be- 
ginning of  society.  Negation  aims  at  some  one,  and  not 
only,  like  a purely  intellectual  operation,  at  some  thing. 


THE  IDEA  OF  ^NOTHING 


289 


IV. 1 

It  is  of  a pedagogical  and  social  nature.  It  sets  straight 
or  rather  warns,  the  person  warned  and  set  straight  being 
possibly,  by  a kind  of  doubling,  the  very  person  that 
speaks. 

So  much  for  the  second  point;  now  for  the  first.  We 
said  that  negation  is  but  the  half  of  an  intellectual  act, 
of  which  the  other  half  is  left  indeterminate.  If  I pro- 
nounce the  negative  proposition,  “This  table  is  not  white,’' 
I mean  that  you  ought  to  substitute  for  your  judgment, 
“The  table  is  white,”  another  judgment.  I give  you  an 
admonition,  and  the  admonition  refers  to  the  necessity 
of  a substitution.  As  to  what  you  ought  to  substitute 
for  your  affirmation,  I tell  you  nothing,  it  is  true.  This 
may  be  because  I do  not  know  the  color  of  the  table; 
but  it  is  also,  it  is  indeed  even  more,  because  the  white 
color  is  that  alone  that  interests  us  for  the  moment,  so  that  I 
only  need  to  tell  you  that  some  other  color  will  have  to  be 
substituted  for  white,  without  having  to  say  which.  A 
negative  judgment  is  therefore  really  one  which  indicates 
a need  of  substituting  for  an  affirmative  judgment  another 
affirmative  judgment,  the  nature  of  which,  however,  is 
not  specified,  sometimes  because  it  is  not  known,  more 
often  because  it  fails  to  offer  any  actual  interest,  the 
attention  bearing  only  on  the  substance  of  the  first. 

Thus,  whenever  I add  a “not”  to  an  affirmation,  when- 
ever I deny,  I perform  two  very  definite  acts:  (1)  I interest 
myself  in  what  one  of  my  fellow-men  affirms,  or  in  what  he 
was  going  to  say,  or  in  what  might  have  been  said  by  an- 
other Me,  whom  I anticipate;  (2)  I announce  that  some 
other  affirmation,  whose  content  I do  not  specify,  will 
have  to  be  substituted  for  the  one  I find  before  me.  Now, 
in  neither  of  these  two  acts  is  there  anything  but  affirma- 
tion. The  sui  generis  character  of  negation  is  due  to 
superimposing  the  first  of  these  acts  upon  the  second. 


290 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


It  is  in  vain,  then,  that  we  attribute  to  negation  the  power 
of  creating  ideas  sui  generis,  symmetrical  with  those  that 
affirmation  creates,  and  directed  in  a contrary  sense.  No 
idea  will  come  forth  from  negation,  for  it  has  no  other 
content  than  that  of  the  affirmative  judgment  which  it 
judges. 

To  be  more  precise,  let  us  consider  an  existential,  in- 
stead of  an  attributive,  judgment.  If  I say,  “The  object 
A does  not  exist,'’  I mean  by  that,  first,  that  we  might 
believe  that  the  object  A exists:  how,  indeed,  can  we  think 
of  the  object  A without  thinking  it  existing,  and,  once 
again,  what  difference  can  there  be  between  the  idea  of 
the  object  A existing  and  the  idea  pure  and  simple  of  the 
object  A?  Therefore,  merely  by  saying  “The  object  A," 
I attribute  to  it  some  kind  of  existence,  though  it  be  that 
of  a mere  possible,  that  is  to  say,  of  a pure  idea.  And 
consequently,  in  the  judgment  “The  object  A is  not,” 
there  is  at  first  an  affirmation  such  as  “The  object  A has 
been,”  or  “The  object  A will  be,”  or,  more  generally, 
“The  object  A exists  at  least  as  a mere  possible^  Now, 
when  I add  the  two  words  “is  not,”  I can  only  mean  that 
if  we  go  further,  if  we  erect  the  possible  object  into  a real 
object,  we  shall  be  mistaken,  and  that  the  possible  of  which 
I am  speaking  is  excluded  from  the  actual  reality  as 
incompatible  with  it.  Judgments  that  posit  the  non- 
existence of  a thing  are  therefore  judgments  that  formu- 
late a contrast  between  the  possible  and  the  actual  (that 
is,  between  two  kinds  of  existence,  one  thought  and  the 
other  found),  where  a person,  real  or  imaginary,  wrongly 
believes  that  a certain  possible  is  realized.  Instead  of 
this  possible,  there  is  a reality  that  differs  from  it  and  re- 
jects it:  the  negative  judgment  expresses  this  contrast, 
but  it  expresses  the  contrast  in  an  intentionally  incomplete 
form,  because  it  is  addressed  to  a person  who  is  sup- 


THE  IDEA  OF  ^NOTHING' 


291 


IV. 1 

posed  to  be  interested  exclusively  in  the  possible  that  is 
indicated,  and  is  not  concerned  to  know  by  what  kind 
of  reality  the  possible  is  replaced.  The  expression  of 
the  substitution  is  therefore  bound  to  be  cut  short.  In- 
stead of  affirming  that  a second  term  is  substituted  for 
the  first,  the  attention  which  was  originally  directed  to 
the  first  term  will  be  kept  fixed  upon  it,  and  upon  it  alone. 
And,  without  going  beyond  the  first,  we  shall  implicitly 
affirm  that  a second  term  replaces  it  in  saying  that  the 
first  “is  not.”  We  shall  thus  judge  a judgment  instead 
of  judging  a thing.  We  shall  warn  others  or  warn  our- 
selves of  a possible  error  instead  of  supplying  positive 
information.  Suppress  every  intention  of  this  kind,  give 
knowledge  back  its  exclusively  scientific  or  philosophical 
character,  suppose  in  other  words  that  reality  comes  itself 
to  inscribe  itself  on  a mind  that  cares  only  for  things  and 
is  not  interested  in  persons:  w^e  shall  affirm  that  such  or 
such  a thing  is,  we  shall  never  affirm  that  a thing  is  not. 

How  comes  it,  then,  that  affirmation  and  negation 
are  so  persistently  put  on  the  same  level  and  endowed 
with  an  equal  objectivity?  How  comes  it  that  we  have 
so  much  difficulty  in  recognizing  that  negation  is.  sub- 
jective, artificially  cut  short,  relative  to  the  human  mind 
and  still  more  to  the  social  life?  The  reason  is,  no  doubt, 
that  both  negation  and  affirmation  are  expressed  in  propo- 
sitions, and  that  any  proposition,  being  formed  of  words, 
which  symbolize  concepts,  is  something  relative  to  social 
life  and  to  the  human  intellect.  Whether  I say  “The 
ground  is  damp”  or  “The  ground  is  not  damp,”  in  both 
cases  the  terms  “ground”  and  “damp”  are  concepts  more 
or  less  artificially  created  by  the  mind  of  man — extracted, 
by  his  free  initiative,  from  the  continuity  of  experience. 
In  both  cases  the  concepts  are  represented  by  the  same 
conventional  words.  In  both  cases  we  can  say  indeed 


292 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


that  the  proposition  aims  at  a social  and  pedagogical  end, 
since  the  first  would  propagate  a truth  as  the  second  would 
prevent  an  error.  From  this  point  of  view,  which  is 
that  of  formal  logic,  to  affirm  and  to  deny  are  indeed 
two  mutually  symmetrical  acts,  of  which  the  first  estab- 
lishes a relation  of  agreement  and  the  second  a relation 
of  disagreement  between  a subject  and  an  attribute. 
But  how  do  we  fail  to  see  that  the  symmetry  is  altogether 
external  and  the  likeness  superficial?  Suppose  language 
fallen  into  disuse,  society  dissolved,  every  intellectual 
initiative,  every  faculty  of  self-reflection  and  of  self- 
judgment atrophied  in  man:  the  dampness  of  the  ground 
will  subsist  none  the  less,  capable  of  inscribing  itself  auto- 
matically in  sensation  and  of  sending  a vague  idea  to  the 
deadened  intellect.  The  intellect  will  still  affirm,  in  implicit 
terms.  And  consequently,  neither  distinct  concepts,  nor 
words,  nor  the  desire  of  spreading  the  truth,  nor  that  of 
bettering  oneself,  are  of  the  very  essence  of  the  affirmation. 
But  this  passive  intelligence,  mechanically  keeping  step 
with  experience,  neither  anticipating  nor  following  the 
course  of  the  real,  would  have  no  wish  to  deny.  It  could 
not  receive  an  imprint  of  negation;  for,  once  again,  that 
which  exists  may  come  to  be  recorded,  but  the  non-ex- 
istence of  the  non-existing  cannot.  For  such  an  intellect 
to  reach  the  point  of  denying,  it  must  awake  from  its  torpor, 
formulate  the  disappointment  of  a real  or  possible  expect- 
ation, correct  an  actual  or  possible  error — in  short,  propose 
to  teach  others  or  to  teach  itself. 

It  is  rather  difficult  to  perceive  this  in  the  example 
we  have  chosen,  but  the  example  is  indeed  the  more  in- 
structive and  the  argument  the  more  cogent  on  that 
account.  If  dampness  is  able  automatically  to  come  and 
record  itself,  it  is  the  same,  it  will  be  said,  with  non-damp- 
ness; for  the  dry  as  w’ell  as  the  damp  can  give  impressions 


IV.] 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING 


293 


to  sense,  which  will  transmit  them,  as  more  or  less  distinct 
ideas,  to  the  intelligence.  In  this  sense  the  negation 
of  dampness  is  as  objective  a thing,  as  purely  intellectual, 
as  remote  from  every  pedagogical  intention,  as  affirmation. 
— But  let  us  look  at  it  more  closely:  we  shall  see  that  the 
negative  proposition,  “The  ground  is  not  damp,”  and  the 
affirmative  proposition,  “The  ground  is  dry,”  have  en- 
tirely different  contents.  The  second  implies  that  we 
know  the  dry,  that  we  have  experienced  the  specific 
sensations,  tactile  or  visual  for  example,  that  are  at  the 
base  of  this  idea.  The  first  requires  nothing  of  the  sort; 
it  could  equally  well  have  been  formulated  by  an  intelligent 
fish,  who  had  never  perceived  anything  but  the  wet.  It 
would  be  necessary,  it  is  true,  that  this  fish  should  have 
risen  to  the  distinction  between  the  real  and  the  possible, 
and  that  he  should  care  to  anticipate  the  error  of  his 
fellow-fishes,  who  doubtless  consider  as  alone  possible 
the  condition  of  wetness  in  which  they  actually  live.  Keep 
strictly  to  the  terms  of  the  proposition,  “The  ground  is 
not  damp,”  and  you  will  find  that  it  means  two  things: 
(1)  that  one  might  believe  that  the  ground  is  damp,  (2) 
that  the  dampness  is  replaced  in  fact  by  a certain  quality  x. 
This  quality  is  left  indeterminate,  either  because  we  have 
no  positive  knowledge  of  it,  or  because  it  has  no  actual 
interest  for  the  person  to  whom  the  negation  is  addressed. 
To  deny,  therefore,  always  consists  in  presenting  in 
an  abridged  form  a system  of  two  affirmations:  the  one 
determinate,  which  applies  to  a certain  possible;  the 
other  indeterminate,  referring  to  the  unknown  or  in- 
different reality  that  supplants  this  possibility.  The 
second  affirmation  is  virtually  contained  in  the  judgment 
we  apply  to  the  first,  a judgment  which  is  negation  it- 
self. And  what  gives  negation  its  subjective  character 
is  precisely  this,  that  in  the  discovery  of  a replacement 


294 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


it  takes  account  only  of  the  replaced,  and  is  not  con- 
cerned with  what  replaces.  The  replaced  exists  only 
as  a conception  of  the  mind.  It  is  necessary,  in  order 
to  continue  to  see  it,  and  consequently  in  order  to  speak 
of  it,  to  turn  our  back  on  the  reality,  which  flows  from  the 
past  to  the  present,  advancing  from  behind.  It  is  this 
that  we  do  when  we  deny.  We  discover  the  change, 
or  more  generally  the  substitution,  as  a traveller  would 
see  the  course  of  his  carriage  if  he  looked  out  behind,  and 
only  knew  at  each  moment  the  point  at  which  he  had 
ceased  to  be;  he  could  never  determine  his  actual  position 
except  by  relation  to  that  which  he  had  just  quitted,  in- 
stead of  grasping  it  in  itself. 

To  sum  up,  for  a mind  which  should  follow  purely 
and  simply  the  thread  of  experience,  there  w^ould  be  no 
void,  no  nought,  even  relative  or  partial,  no  possible 
negation.  vSuch  a mind  would  see  facts  succeed  facts, 
states  succeed  states,  things  succeed  things.  What  it 
would  note  at  each  moment  would  be  things  existing, 
states  appearing,  events  happening.  It  would  live  in 
the  actual,  and,  if  it  were  capable  of  judging,  it  would 
never  affirm  anything  except  the  existence  of  the  present. 

Endow  this  mind  with  memory,  and  especially  with 
the  desire  to  dwell  on  the  past;  give  it  the  faculty  of 
dissociating  and  of  distinguishing:  it  will  no  longer  only 
note  the  present  state  of  the  passing  reality;  it  will  repre- 
sent the  passing  as  a change,  and  therefore  as  a contrast 
between  what  has  been  and  what  is.  And  as  there  is  no 
essential  difference  between  a past  that  we  remember 
and  a past  that  we  imagine,  it  will  quickly  rise  to  the  idea 
of  the  possible”  in  general. 

It  will  thus  be  shunted  on  to  the  siding  of  negation. 
And  especially  it  will  be  at  the  point  of  representing 
a disappearance.  But  it  v;ill  not  yet  have  reached  it. 


IV.l 


THE  IDEA  OF  ^NOTHING: 


295 


To  represent  that  a thing  has  disappeared,  it  is  not  enough 
to  perceive  a contrast  between  the  past  and  the  present; 
it  is  necessary  besides  to  turn  our  back  on  the  present, 
to  dwell  on  the  past,  and  to  think  the  contrast  of  the  past 
with  the  present  in  terms  of  the  past  only,  without  letting 
the  present  appear  in  it. 

The  idea  of  annihilation  is  therefore  not  a pure  idea; 
it  implies  that  we  regret  the  past  or  that  we  conceive  it 
as  regrettable,  that  we  have  some  reason  to  linger  over 
it.  The  idea  arises  when  the  phenomenon  of  substitition 
is  cut  in  two  by  a mind  which  considers  only  the  first  half, 
because  that  alone  interests  it.  Suppress  all  interest, 
all  feeling,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  the  reality  that 
flows,  together  with  the  knowledge  ever  renewed  that  it 
impresses  on  us  of  its  present  state. 

From  annihilation  to  negation,  which  is  a more  general 
operation,  there  is  now  only  a step.  All  that  is  necessary 
is  to  represent  the  contrast  of  what  is,  not  only  with  what 
has  been,  but  also  with  all  that  might  have  been.  And 
we  must  express  this  contrast  as  a function  of  what  might 
have  been,  and  not  of  what  is ; we  must  affirm  the  existence 
of  the  actual  while  looking  only  at  the  possible.  The 
formula  we  thus  obtain  no  longer  expresses  merely  a 
disappointment  of  the  individual;  it  is  made  to  correct 
or  guard  against  an  error,  which  is  rather  supposed  to  be 
the  error  of  another.  In  this  sense,  negation  has  a peda- 
gogical and  social  character. 

Now,  once  negation  is  formulated,  it  presents  an  aspect 
symmetrical  with  that  of  affirmation;  if  affirmation  affirms 
an  objective  reality,  it  seems  that  negation  must  affirm 
a non-reality  equally  objective,  and,  so  to  say,  equally 
real.  In  which  we  are  both  right  and  wrong:  wrong, 
because  negation  cannot  be  objectified,  in  so  far  as  it  is 
negative;  right,  however,  in  that  the  negation  of  a thing 


296 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


implies  the  latent  affirmation  of  its  replacement  by  some- 
thing else,  which  we  systematically  leave  on  one  side. 
But  the  negative  form  of  negation  benefits  by  the  affirma- 
tion at  the  bottom  of  it.  Bestriding  the  positive  solid 
reality  to  which  it  is  attached,  this  phantom  objectifies 
itself.  Thus  is  formed  the  idea  of  the  void  or  of  a partial 
nought,  a thing  being  supposed  to  be  replaced,  not  by 
another  thing,  but  by  a void  which  it  leaves,  that  is,  by 
the  negation  of  itself.  Now,  as  this  operation  works  on 
anything  whatever,  we  suppose  it  performed  on  each  thing 
in  turn,  and  finally  on  all  things  in  block.  We  thus  obtain 
the  idea  of  absolute  Nothing.  If  now  we  analyze  this  idea 
of  Nothing,  we  find  that  it  is,  at  bottom,  the  idea  of 
Everything,  together  with  a movement  of  the  mind  that 
keeps  jumping  from  one  thing  to  another,  refuses  to  stand 
still,  and  concentrates  all  its  attention  on  this  refusal  by 
never  determining  its  actual  position  except  by  relation 
to  that  which  it  has  just  left.  It  is  therefore  an  idea 
eminently  comprehensive  and  full,  as  full  and  compre- 
hensive as  the  idea  of  All,  to  which  it  is  very  closely  akin. 

How  then  can  the  idea  of  Nought  be  opposed  to  that 
of  All?  Is  it  not  plain  that  this  is  to  oppose  the  full  to 
the  full,  and  that  the  question,  *^^Vhy  does  something 
exist? is  consequently  without  meaning,  a pseudo- 
problem raised  about  a pseudo-idea?  Yet  we  must  say 
once  more  why  this  phantom  of  a problem  haunts  the  mind 
with  such  obstinacy.  In  vain  do  we  show  that  in  the 
idea  of  an  “annihilation  of  the  reah’  there  is  only  the  image 
of  all  realities  expelling  one  another  endlessly,  in  a circle; 
in  vain  do  we  add  that  the  idea  of  non-existence  is  only 
that  of  the  expulsion  of  an  imponderable  existence,  or  a 
“merely  possible^’  existence,  by  a more  substantial  ex- 
istence which  would  then  be  the  true  reality;  in  vain  do  we 
find  in  the  sui  generis  form  of  negation  an  element  which 


IV.l 


THE  IDEA  OF  ‘NOTHING^ 


297 


is  not  intellectual — negation  being  the  judgment  of  a 
judgment,  an  admonition  given  to  some  one  else  or  to 
oneself,  so  that  it  is  absurd  to  attribute  to  negation  the 
power  of  creating  ideas  of  a new  kind,  viz.  ideas  without 
content ; — in  spite  of  all,  the  conviction  persists  that  before 
things,  or  at  least  under  things,  there  is  ‘‘Nothing.”  If 
we  seek  the  reason  of  this  fact,  we  shall  find  it  precisely 
in  the  feeling,  in  the  social  and,  so  to  speak,  practical 
element,  that  gives  its  specific  form  to  negation.  The 
greatest  philosophic  difficulties  arise,  as  we  have  said, 
from  the  fact  that  the  forms  of  human  action  venture 
outside  of  their  proper  sphere.  We  are  made  in  order 
to  act  as  much  as,  and  more  than,  in  order  to  think — 
or  rather,  when  we  follow  the  bent  of  our  nature,  it  is  in 
order  to  act  that  we  think.  It  is  therefore  no  wonder 
that  the  habits  of  action  give  their  tone  to  those  of  thought, 
and  that  our  mind  always  perceives  things  in  the  same 
order  in  which  we  are  accustomed  to  picture  them  when  we 
propose  to  act  on  them.  Now,  it  is  unquestionable,  as 
we  remarked  above,  that  every  human  action  has  its 
starting-point  in  a dissatisfaction,  and  thereby  in  a feeling 
of  absence.  We  should  not  act  if  we  did  not  set  before 
ourselves  an  end,  and  we  seek  a thing  only  because  we  feel 
the  lack  of  it.  Our  action  proceeds  thus  from  “nothing” 
to  “something,”  and  its  very  essence  is  to  embroider 
“something”  on  the  canvas  of  “nothing.”  The  truth 
is  that  the  “nothing”  concerned  here  is  the  absence  not 
so  much  of  a thing  as  of  a utility.  If  I bring  a visitor 
into  a room  that  I have  not  yet  furnished,  I say  to  him 
that  “there  is  nothing  in  it.”  Yet  I know  the  room  is 
full  of  air;  but,  as  we  do  not  sit  on  air,  the  room  truly 
contains  nothing  that  at  this  moment,  for  the  visitor 
and  for  myself,  counts  for  anything.  In  a general  way, 
human  v/ork  consists  in  creating  utility;  and,  as  long  as 


298 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


the  work  is  not  done,  there  is  “nothing” — nothing  that  we 
want.  Our  life  is  thus  spent  in  filling  voids,  which  our 
intellect  conceives  under  the  influence,  by  no  means 
intellectual,  of  desire  and  of  regret,  under  the  pressure  of 
vital  necessities;  and  if  we  mean  by  void  an  absence  of 
utility  and  not  of  things,  we  may  say,  in  this  quite  relative 
sense,  that  we  are  constantly  going  from  the  void  to  the 
full:  such  is  the  direction  which  our  action  takes.  Our 
speculation  cannot  help  doing  the  same;  and,  naturally, 
it  passes  from  the  relative  sense  to  the  absolute  sense, 
since  it  is  exercised  on  things  themselves  and  not  on  the 
utility  they  have  for  us.  Thus  is  implanted  in  us  the  idea 
that  reality  fills  a void,  and  that  Nothing,  conceived  as 
an  absence  of  everything,  pre-exists  before  all  things  in 
right,  if  not  in  fact.  It  is  this  illusion  that  we  have  tried 
to  remove  by  showing  that  the  idea  of  Nothing,  if  we  try 
to  see  in  it  that  of  an  annihilation  of  all  things,  is  self- 
destructive and  reduced  to  a mere  word;  and  that  if,  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  truly  an  idea,  then  we  find  in  it  as  much 
matter  as  in  the  idea  of  All. 

This  long  analysis  has  been  necessary  to  show  that 
a self-sufficient  reality  is  not  necessarily  a reality  foreign 
to  duration.  If  we  pass  (consciously  or  unconsciously) 
through  the  idea  of  the  nought  in  order  to  reach  that 
of  being,  the  being  to  which  we  come  is  a logical  or  mathe- 
matical essence,  therefore  non-temporal.  And,  conse- 
quently, a static  conception  of  the  real  is  forced  on  us: 
everything  appears  given  once  for  all,  in  eternity.  But 
we  must  accustom  ourselves  to  think  being  directly, 
without  making  a detour,  without  first  appealing  to 
the  phantom  of  the  nought  which  interposes  itself  be- 
tween it  and  us.  We  must  strive  to  see  in  order  to  see, 
and  no  longer  to  see  in  order  to  act.  Then  the  Absolute 


VI.] 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


299 


is  revealed  very  near  us  and,  in  a certain  measure,  in  us. 
It  is  of  psychological  and  not  of  mathematical  nor  logical 
essence.  It  lives  with  us.  Like  us,  but  in  certain  aspects 
infinitely  more  concentrated  and  more  gathered  up  in 
itself,  it  endures. 

But  do  we  ever  think  true  duration?  Here  again 
a direct  taking  possession  is  necessary.  It  is  no  use 
trying  to  approach  duration:  we  must  install  ourselves 
within  it  straight  away.  This  is  what  the  intellect  gener- 
ally refuses  to  do,  accustomed  as  it  is  to  think  the  moving 
by  means  of  the  unmovable. 

The  function  of  the  intellect  is  to  preside  over  actions. 
Now,  in  action,  it  is  the  result  that  interests  us;  the  means 
matter  little  provided  the  end  is  attained.  Thence  it 
comes  that  we  are  altogether  bent  on  the  end  to  be  realized, 
generally  trusting  ourselves  to  it  in  order  that  the  idea  may 
become  an  act;  and  thence  it  comes  also  that  only  the  goal 
where  our  activity  will  rest  is  pictured  explicitly  to  our 
mind:  the  movements  constituting  the  action  itself  either 
elude  our  consciousness  or  reach  it  only  confusedly.  Let 
us  consider  a very  simple  act,  like  that  of  lifting  the  arm. 
Where  should  we  be  if  we  had  to  imagine  beforehand 
all  the  elementary"  contractions  and  tensions  this  act 
involves,  or  even  to  perceive  them,  one  by  one,  as  they 
are  accomplished?  But  the  mind  is  carried  immediately 
to  the  end,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  schematic  and  simplified 
vision  of  the  act  supposed  accomplished.  Then,  if  no 
antagonistic  idea  neutralizes  the  effect  of  the  first  idea, 
the  appropriate  movements  come  of  themselves  to  fill  out 
the  plan,  drawn  in  some  way  by  the  void  of  its  gaps.  The 
intellect,  then,  only  represents  to  the  activity  ends  to 
attain,  that  is  to  say,  points  of  rest.  And,  from  one  end 
attained  to  another  end  attained,  from  one  rest  to  another 
rest,  our  activity  is  carried  by  a series  of  leaps,  during 


300 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


which  our  consciousness  is  turned  away  as  much  as  possible 
from  the  movement  going  on,  to  regard  only  the  anticipated 
image  of  the  movement  accomplished. 

Now,  in  order  that  it  may  represent  as  unmovable 
the  result  of  the  act  which  is  being  accomplished,  the 
intellect  must  perceive,  as  also  unmovable,  the  surround- 
ings in  which  this  result  is  being  framed.  Our  activity 
is  fitted  into  the  material  world.  If  matter  appeared 
to  ifs  as  a perpetual  flowing,  we  should  assign  no  termina- 
tion to  any  of  our  actions.  We  should  feel  each  of  them 
dissolve  as  fast  as  it  was  accomplished,  and  we  should 
not  anticipate  an  ever-fleeting  future.  In  order  that  our 
activity  may  leap  from  an  act  to  an  act,  it  is  necessary 
that  matter  should  pass  from  a state  to  a state,  for  it  is  only 
into  a state  of  the  material  w’orld  that  action  can  fit  a 
result,  so  as  to  be  accomplished.  But  is  it  thus  that  matter 
presents  itseh? 

A 'priori  we  may  presume  that  our  perception  manages 
to  apprehend  matter  with  this  bias.  Sensory  organs 
and  motor  organs  are  in  fact  coordinated  with  each  other. 
Now,  the  first  symbolize  our  faculty  of  perceiving,  as  the 
second  our  faculty  of  acting.  The  organism  thus  evidences, 
in  a visible  and  tangible  form,  the  perfect  accord  of  per- 
ception and  action.  So  if  our  activity  always  aims  at  a 
result  into  v/hich  it  is  momentarily  fitted,  our  perception 
must  retain  of  the  material  world,  at  every  moment,  only 
a state  in  which  it  is  provisionally  placed.  This  is  the  most 
natural  hypothesis.  And  it  is  easy  to  see  that  experience 
confirms  it. 

From  our  first  glance  at  the  w^orld,  before  we  even 
make  our  bodies  in  it,  we  distinguish  qualities.  Color 
succeeds  to  color,  sound  to  sound,  resistance  to  resist- 
ance, etc.  Each  of  these  qualities,  taken  separately,  is  a 
state  that  seems  to  persist  as  such,  immovable  until  an- 


IV.l 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


301 


other  replaces  it.  Yet  each  of  these  qualities  resolves 
itself,  on  analysis,  into  an  enormous  number  of  elementary 
movements.  Whether  we  see  in  it  vibrations  or  whether 
we  represent  it  in  any  other  way,  one  fact  is  certain,  it 
is  that  every  quality  is  change.  In  vain,  moreover,  shall 
we  seek  beneath  the  change  the  thing  which  changes: 
it  is  always  provisionally,  and  in  order  to  satisfy  our 
imagination,  that  we  attach  the  movement  to  a mobile. 
The  mobile  flies  for  ever  before  the  pursuit  of  science, 
which  is  concerned  with  mobility  alone.  In  the  smallest 
discernible  fraction  of  a second,  in  the  almost  instantaneous 
perception  of  a sensible  quality,  there  may  be  trillions 
of  oscillations  which  repeat  themselves.  The  permanence 
of  a sensible  quality  consists  in  this  repetition  of  move- 
ments, as  the  persistence  of  life  consists  in  a series  of  pal- 
pitations. The  primal  function  of  perception  is  precisely 
to  grasp  a series  of  elementary  changes  under  the  form  of 
a quality  or  of  a simple  state,  by  a work  of  condensation. 
The  greater  the  power  of  acting  bestowed  upon  an  animal 
species,  the  more  numerous,  probably,  are  the  elementary 
changes  that  its  faculty  of  perceiving  concentrates  into 
one  of  its  instants.  And  the  progress  must  be  continuous, 
in  nature,  from  the  beings  that  vibrate  almost  in  unison 
with  the  oscillations  of  the  ether,  up  to  those  that  embrace 
trillions  of  these  oscillations  in  the  shortest  of  their  simple 
perceptions.  The  first  feel  hardly  anything  but  move- 
ments; the  others  perceive  quality.  The  first  are  almost 
caught  up  in  the  running-gear  of  things;  the  others  react, 
and  the  tension  of  their  faculty  of  acting  is  probably  pro- 
portional to  the  concentration  of  their  faculty  of  per- 
ceiving. The  progress  goes  on  even  in  humanity  itself. 
A man  is  so  much  the  more  a “man  of  action”  as  he  can 
embrace  in  a glance  a greater  number  of  events:  he  who 
perceives  successive  events  one  by  one  will  allow  himself 


302 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  be  led  by  them;  he  who  grasps  them  as  a whole  will 
dominate  them.  In  short,  the  qualities  of  matter  are  so 
many  stable  views  that  we  take  of  its  instability. 

Now,  in  the  continuity  of  sensible  qualities  we  mark 
off  the  boundaries  of  bodies.  Each  of  these  bodies  really 
changes  at  every  moment.  In  the  first  place,  it  resolves 
itself  into  a group  of  qualities,  and  every  quality,  as  w^e  said, 
consists  of  a succession  of  elementary  movements.  But, 
even  if  we  regard  the  quality  as  a stable  state,  the  body 
is  still  unstable  in  that  it  changes  qualities  without  ceasing. 
The  body  pre-eminently — that  which  we  are  most  justified 
in  isolating  within  the  continuity  of  matter,  because  it 
constitutes  a relatively  closed  system — is  the  living  body; 
it  is,  moreover,  for  it  that  we  cut  out  the  others  within 
the  whole.  Now,  life  is  an  evolution.  We  concentrate 
a period  of  this  evolution  in  a stable  view  which  we 
call  a form,  and,  when  the  change  has  become  considerable 
enough  to  overcome  the  fortunate  inertia  of  our  per- 
ception, we  say  that  the  body  has  changed  its  form.  But 
in  reality  the  body  is  changing  form  at  every  moment; 
or  rather,  there  is  no  form,  since  form  is  immobile  and  the 
reality  is  movement.  What  is  real  is  the  continual  change 
of  form : form  is  only  a snapshot  view  of  a transition.  There- 
fore, here  again,  our  perception  manages  to  solidify  into 
discontinuous  images  the  fluid  continuity  of  the  real. 
When  the  successive  images  do  not  differ  from  each  other 
too  much,  we  consider  them  all  as  the  waxing  and  waning 
of  a single  mean  image,  or  as  the  deformation  of  this  image 
in  different  directions.  And  to  this  mean  w^e  really  allude 
when  we  speak  of  the  essence  of  a thing,  or  of  the  thing 
itself. 

Finally  things,  once  constituted,  show  on  the  surface, 
by  their  changes  of  situation,  the  profound  changes  that 
are  being  accomplished  within  the  Whole.  We  say  then 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


303 


iv.i 

that  they  act  on  one  another.  This  action  appears  to 
us,  no  doubt,  in  the  form  of  movement.  But  from  the 
mobility  of  the  movement  we  turn  away  as  much  as  we 
can;  what  interests  us  is,  as  we  said  above,  the  unmovable 
plan  of  the  movement  rather  than  the  movement  itself. 
Is  it  a simple  movement?  We  ask  ourselves  where  it  is 
going.  It  is  by  its  direction,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  position 
of  its  provisional  end,  that  we  represent  it  at  every  moment. 
Is  it  a complex  movement?  We  would  know  above  all 
lohat  is  going  on,  what  the  movement  is  doing — in  other 
words,  the  result  obtained  or  the  presiding  intention. 
Examine  closely  what  is  in  your  mind  when  you  speak 
of  an  action  in  course  of  accomplishment.  The  idea  of 
change  is  there,  I am  willing  to  grant,  but  it  is  hidden  in 
the  penumbra.  In  the  full  light  is  the  motionless  plan 
of  the  act  supposed  accomplished.  It  is  by  this,  and  by 
this  only,  that  the  complex  act  is  distinguished  and  defined. 
We  should  be  very  much  embarrassed  if  we  had  to  imagine 
the  movements  inherent  in  the  actions  of  eating,  drinking, 
fighting,  etc.  It  is  enough  for  us  to  know,  in  a general 
and  indefinite  way,  that  all  these  acts  are  movements. 
Once  that  side  of  the  matter  has  been  settled,  we  simply 
seek  to  represent  the  general  plan  of  each  of  these  complex 
movements,  that  is  to  say  the  motionless  design  that  under- 
lies them.  Here  again  knowledge  bears  on  a state  rather 
than  on  a change.  It  is  therefore  the  same  with  this  third 
case  as  with  the  others.  Whether  the  movement  be 
qualitative  or  evolutionary  or  extensive,  the  mind  manages 
to  take  stable  views  of  the  instability.  And  thence  the 
mind  derives,  as  we  have  just  shown,  three  kinds  of  repre- 
sentations: (1)  qualities,  (2)  forms  of  essences,  (3)  acts. 

To  these  three  ways  of  seeing  correspond  three  categories 
of  words:  adjectives,  substantives,  and  verbs,  which  are  the 
primordial  elements  of  language.  Adjectives  and  sub- 


304 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


stantives  therefore  symbolize  states.  But  the  verb  it- 
self, if  we  keep  to  the  clear  part  of  the  idea  it  calls  up, 
hardly  expresses  anything  else. 

Now,  if  we  try  to  characterize  more  precisely  our  natural 
attitude  towards  Becoming,  this  is  what  we  find.  Be- 
coming is  infinitely  varied.  That  which  goes  from  yellow 
to  green  is  not  like  that  which  goes  from  green  to  blue: 
thej  are  different  qualitative  movements.  That  which 
goes  from  flower  to  fruit  is  not  like  that  which  goes  from 
larva  to  nymph  and  from  nymph  to  perfect  insect:  they 
are  different  evolutionary  movements.  The  action  of  eat- 
ing or  of  drinking  is  not  like  the  action  of  fighting : they  are 
different  extensive  movements.  And  these  three  kinds 
of  movement  themselves — qualitative,  evolutionary^  ex- 
tensive— differ  profoundly.  The  trick  of  our  perception, 
like  that  of  our  intelligence,  like  that  of  our  language, 
consists  in  extracting  from  these  profoundly  different 
becomings  the  single  representation  of  becoming  in  general, 
undefined  becoming,  a mere  abstraction  which  by  itself 
says  nothing  and  of  which,  indeed,  it  is  very  rarely  that  we 
think.  To  this  idea,  always  the  same,  and  always  obscure 
or  unconscious,  we  then  join,  in  each  particular  case,  one  or 
several  clear  images  that  represent  states  and  which  serve 
to  distinguish  all  becomings  from  each  other.  It  is  this 
composition  of  a specified  and  definite  state  with  change 
general  and  undefined  that  we  substitute  for  the  specific 
change.  An  infinite  multiplicity  of  becomings  variously 
colored,  so  to  speak,  passes  before  our  eyes:  we  manage  so 
that  we  see  only  differences  of  color,  that  is  to  say,  differ- 
ences of  state,  beneath  which  there  is  supposed  to  flow, 
hidden  from  our  \dew,  a becoming  always  and  every- 
where the  same,  invariably  colorless. 

Suppose  we  wish  to  portray  on  a screen  a hving  picture. 


IV.I  FORM  AND  BECOMING  305 

such  as  the  marching  past  of  a regiment.  There  is  one 
way  in  which  it  might  first  occur  to  us  to  do  it.  That 
would  be  to  cut  out  jointed  figures  representing  the  soldiers, 
to  give  to  each  of  them  the  movement  of  marching,  a 
movement  varying  from  individual  to  individual  although 
common  to  the  human  species,  and  to  throw  the  whole 
on  the  screen.  We  should  need  to  spend  on  this  little 
game  an  enormous  amount  of  work,  and  even  then  we 
should  obtain  but  a very  poor  result:  how  could  it,  at  its 
best,  reproduce  the  suppleness  and  variety  of  life?  Now, 
there  is  another  way  of  proceeding,  more  easy  and  at 
the  same  time  more  effective.  It  is  to  take  a series  of 
snapshots  of  the  passing  regiment  and  to  throw  these 
instantaneous  views  on  the  screen,  so  that  they  replace 
each  other  very  rapidly.  This  is  what  the  cinematograph 
does.  With  photographs,  each  of  which  represents  the 
regiment  in  a fixed  attitude,  it  reconstitutes  the  mobility 
of  the  regiment  marching.  It  is  true  that  if  we  had  to  do 
with  photographs  alone,  however  much  we  might  look  at 
them,  we  should  never  see  them  animated : with  immobility 
set  beside  immobility,  even  endlessly,  we  could  never  make 
movement.  In  order  that  the  pictures  may  be  animated, 
there  must  be  movement  somewhere.  The  movement 
does  indeed  exist  here;  it  is  in  the  apparatus.  It  is  be- 
cause the  film  of  the  cinematograph  unrolls,  bringing 
in  turn  the  different  photographs  of  the  scene  to  continue 
each  other,  that  each  actor  of  the  scene  recovers  his  mobil- 
ity; he  strings  all  his  successive  attitudes  on  the  invisible 
movement  of  the  film.  The  process  then  consists  in  ex- 
tracting from  all  the  movements  peculiar  to  all  the  figures 
an  impersonal  movement  abstract  and  simple,  movement 
in  general,  so  to  speak : we  put  this  into  the  apparatus,  and 
we  reconstitute  the  individuality  of  each  particular  move- 
ment by  combining  this  nameless  movement  with  the  per- 


306 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


sonal  attitudes.  Such  is  the  contrivance  of  the  cinemato- 
graph. And  such  is  also  that  of  our  knowledge.  Instead 
of  attaching  ourselves  to  the  inner  becoming  of  things, 
we  place  ourselves  outside  them  in  order  to  recompose 
their  becoming  artificially.  We  take  snapshots,  as  it  were, 
of  the  passing  reality,  and,  as  these  are  characteristic  of 
the  reality,  we  have  only  to  string  them  on  a becoming, 
abstract,  uniform  and  invisible,  situated  at  the  back  of 
the  apparatus  of  knowledge,  in  order  to  imitate  what 
there  is  that  is  characteristic  in  this  becoming  itself. 
Perception,  intellection,  language  so  proceed  in  general. 
Whether  we  would  think  becoming,  or  express  it,  or 
even  perceive  it,  we  hardly  do  anything  else  than  set 
going  a kind  of  cinematograph  inside  us.  We  may  there- 
fore sum  up  what  we  have  been  saying  in  the  conclusion 
that  the  mechanism  of  our  ordinary  knowledge  is  of  a cine- 
matographical  kind. 

Of  the  altogether  practical  character  of  this  operation 
there  is  no  possible  doubt.  Each  of  our  acts  aims  at  a 
certain  insertion  of  our  will  into  the*  reality.  There  is, 
between  our  body  and  other  bodies,  an  arrangement 
like  that  of  the  pieces  of  glass  that  compose  a kaleido- 
scopic picture.  Our  activity  goes  from  an  arrangement 
to  a re-arrangement,  each  time  no  doubt  giving  the  kaleido- 
scope a new  shake,  but  not  interesting  itself  in  the  shake, 
and  seeing  only  the  new  picture.  Our  knowledge  of  the 
operation  of  nature  must  be  exactly  symmetrical,  there- 
fore, with  the  interest  we  take  in  our  own  operation.  In 
this  sense  we  may  say,  if  we  are  not  abusing  this  kind  of 
illustration,  that  the  dnematographical  character  of  our 
knowledge  of  things  is  due  to  the  kaleidoscopic  character 
of  our  adaptation  to  them. 

The  cinematographical  method  is  therefore  the  only 
practical  method,  since  it  consists  in  making  the  general 


IV.l 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


307 


character  of  knowledge  form  itself  on  that  of  action, 
while  expecting  that  the  detail  of  each  act  should  depend 
in  its  turn  on  that  of  knowledge.  In  order  that  action 
may  always  be  enlightened,  intelligence  must  always  be 
present  in  it ; but  intelligence,  in  order  thus  to  accompany 
the  progress  of  activity  and  ensure  its  direction,  must 
begin  by  adopting  its  rhythm.  Action  is  discontinuous, 
like  every  pulsation  of  life;  discontinuous,  therefore,  is 
knowledge.  The  mechanism  of  the  faculty  of  knowing 
has  been  constructed  on  this  plan.  Essentially  practical, 
can  it  be  of  use,  such  as  it  is,  for  speculation?  Let  us  try 
with  it  to  follow  reality  in  its  windings,  and  see  what  will 
happen. 

I take  of  the  continuity  of  a particular  becoming  a 
series  of  views,  which  I connect  together  by  ‘^becoming 
in  general.’^  But  of  course  I cannot  stop  there.  What 
is  not  determinable  is  not  representable:  of  ‘‘becoming 
in  general”  I have  only  a verbal  knowledge.  As  the 
letter  x designates  a certain  unknown  quantity,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  so  my  “becoming  in  general,”  always 
the  same,  symbolizes  here  a certain  transition  of  which 
I have  taken  some  snapshots;  of  the  transition  itself 
it  teaches  me  nothing.  Let  me  then  concentrate  myself 
wholly  on  the  transition,  and,  between  any  two  snap- 
shots, endeavor  to  realize  what  is  going  on.  As  I apply 
the  same  method,  I obtain  the  same  result;  a third  view 
merely  slips  in  between  the  two  others.  I may  begin 
again  as  often  as  I will,  I may  set  views  alongside  of  views 
for  ever,  I shall  obtain  nothing  else.  The  application  of 
the  cinematographical  method  therefore  leads  to  a perpet- 
ual recommencement,  during  which  the  mind,  never  able  to 
satisfy  itself  and  never  finding  where  to  rest,  persuades 
itself,  no  doubt,  that  it  imitates  by  its  instability  the  very 
movement  of  tne  real.  But  though,  by  straining  itself 


308 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CILVP. 


to  the  point  of  giddiness,  it  may  end  by  giving  itself  the 
illusion  of  mobility,  its  operation  has  not  advanced  it  a 
step,  since  it  remains  as  far  as  ever  from  its  goal.  In  order 
to  advance  with  the  moving  reality,  you  must  replace 
yourself  within  it.  Install  yourself  within  change,  and  you 
will  grasp  at  once  both  change  itself  and  the  successive 
states  in  which  it  might  at  any  instant  be  immobilized. 
But  with  these  successive  states,  perceived  from  without 
as  ;eal  and  no  longer  as  potential  immobilities,  you  will 
never  reconstitute  movement.  Call  them  qualities,  forms, 
'positions,  or  intentions,  as  the  case  may  be,  multiply  the 
number  of  them  as  you  will,  let  the  interval  between 
two  consecutive  states  be  infinitely  small:  before  the 
intervening  movement  you  will  always  experience  the 
disappointment  of  the  child  who  tries  by  clapping  his 
hands  together  to  crush  the  smoke.  The  movement 
slips  through  the  interval,  because  every  attempt  to  re- 
constitute change  out  of  states  implies  the  absurd  propo- 
sition, that  movement  is  made  of  immobilities. 

Philosophy  perceived  this  as  soon  as  it  opened  its  eyes. 
The  arguments  of  Zeno  of  Elea,  although  formulated  with 
a very  different  intention,  have  no  other  meaning. 

Take  the  flying  arrow.  At  every  moment,  says  Zeno, 
it  is  motionless,  for  it  cannot  have  time  to  move,  that 
is,  to  occupy  at  least  two  successive  positions,  unless  at 
least  two  moments  are  allowed  it.  At  a given  moment, 
therefore,  it  is  at  rest  at  a given  point.  Motionless  in 
each  point  of  its  course,  it  is  motionless  during  all  the  time 
that  it  is  moving. 

Yes,  if  we  suppose  that  the  arrow  can  ever  he  in  a point 
of  its  course.  Yes  again,  if  the  arrow,  which  is  moving, 
ever  coincides  with  a position,  which  is  motionless.  But 
the  arrow  never  is  in  any  point  of  its  course.  The  most 
we  can  say  is  that  it  might  be  there,  in  this  sense,  that  it 


IV.l 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


309 


passes  there  and  might  stX3p  there.  It  is  true  that  if  it 
did  stop  there,  it  would  be  at  rest  there,  and  at  this  point 
it  is  no  longer  movement  that  we  should  have  to  do  with. 
The  truth  is  that  if  the  arrow  leaves  the  point  A to  fall 
down  at  the  point  B,  its  movement  AB  is  as  simple,  as 
indecomposable,  in  so  far  as  it  is  movement,  as  the  tension 
of  the  bow  that  shoots  it.  As  the  shrapnel,  bursting  before 
it  falls  to  the  ground,  covers  the  explosive  zone  with  an 
indivisible  danger,  so  the  arrow  which  goes  from  A to  B 
displays  with  a single  stroke,  although  over  a certain  extent 
of  duration,  its  indivisible  mobility.  Suppose  an  elastic 
stretched  from  A to  B,  could  you  divide  its  extension? 
The  course  of  the  arrow  is  this  very  extension;  it  is  equally 
simple  and  equally  undivided.  It  is  a single  and  unique 
bound.  You  fix  a point  C in  the  interval  passed,  and  say 
that  at  a certain  moment  the  arrow  was  in  C.  If  it  had 
been  there,  it  would  have  been  stopped  there,  and  you 
would  no  longer  have  had  a flight  from  A to  B,  but  two 
flights,  one  from  A to  C and  the  other  from  C to  B,  wdth  an 
interval  of  rest.  A single  movement  is  entirely,  by  the 
hypothesis,  a movement  between  two  stops;  if  there  are 
intermediate  stops,  it  is  no  longer  a single  movement. 
At  bottom,  the  illusion  arises  from  this,  that  the  movement, 
once  effected,  has  laid  along  its  course  a motionless  tra- 
jectory on  which  we  can  count  as  many  immobilities  as 
we  will.  From  this  we  conclude  that  the  movement, 
whilst  being  effected,  lays  at  each  instant  beneath  it  a position 
with  which  it  coincides.  We  do  not  see  that  the  trajectory 
is  created  in  one  stroke,  although  a certain  time  is  re- 
quired for  it;  and  that  though  we  can  divide  at  will  the 
trajectory  once  created,  we  cannot  divide  its  creation, 
which  is  an  act  in  progress  and  not  a thing.  To  suppose 
that  the  moving  body  is  at  a point  of  its  course  is  to  cut 
the  course  in  two  by  a snip  of  the  scissors  at  this  point, 


310 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


and  to  substitute  two  trajectories  for  the  single  trajectory 
which  we  were  first  considering.  It  is  to  distinguish 
two  successive  acts  where,  by  the  hypothesis,  there  is 
only  one.  In  short,  it  is  to  attribute  to  the  course  itself 
of  the  arrow  everything  that  can  be  said  of  the  interval 
that  the  arrow  has  traversed,  that  is  to  say,  to  admit 
a priori  the  absurdity  that  movement  coincides  with 
immobility. 

We  shall  not  dwell  here  on  the  three  other  arguments 
of  Zeno.  We  have  examined  them  elsewhere.  It  is 
enough  to  point  out  that  they  all  consist  in  applying  the 
movement  to  the  line  traversed,  and  supposing  that  what 
is  true  of  the  line  is  true  of  the  movement.  The  line,  for 
example,  may  be  divided  into  as  many  parts  as  we  wish, 
of  any  length  that  we  wish,  and  it  is  always  the  same  line. 
From  this  we  conclude  that  we  have  the  right  to  suppose 
the  movement  articulated  as  we  wish,  and  that  it  is  alv/ays 
the  same  movement.  We  thus  obtain  a series  of  absurdi- 
ties that  all  express  the  same  fundamental  absurdity.  But 
the  possibility  of  applying  the  movement  to  the  line  tra- 
versed exists  only  for  an  observer  who  keeping  outside 
the  movement  and  seeing  at  every  instant  the  possibility 
of  a stop,  tries  to  reconstruct  the  real  move  n-mt  with  these 
possible  immobilities.  The  absurdity  vanishes  as  soon 
as  we  adopt  by  thought  the  continuity  of  the  real  move- 
ment, a continuity  of  which  every  one  of  us  is  conscious 
whenever  he  lifts  an  arm  or  advances  a step.  We  feel 
then  indeed  that  the  line  passed  over  between  two  stops  is 
described  with  a single  indivisible  stroke,  and  that  we  seek 
in  vain  to  practice  on  the  movement,  which  traces  the  line, 
divisions  corresponding,  each  to  each,  with  the  divisions 
arbitrarily  chosen  of  the  line  once  it  has  been  traced.  The 
line  traversed  by  the  moving  body  lends  itself  to  any  kind 
of  division,  because  it  has  no  internal  organization.  But 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


311 


IT.l 

all  movement  is  articulated  inwardly.  It  is  either  an 
indivisible  bound  (which  may  occupy,  nevertheless,  a 
very  long  duration)  or  a series  of  indivisible  bounds. 
Take  the  articulations  of  this  movement  into  account, 
or  give  up  speculating  on  its  nature. 

When  Achilles  pursues  the  tortoise,  each  of  his  steps 
must  be  treated  as  indivisible,  and  so  must  each  step  of 
the  tortoise.  After  a certain  number  of  steps,  Achilles 
will  have  overtaken  the  tortoise.  There  is  nothing  more 
simple.  If  you  insist  on  dividing  the  two  motions  further, 
distinguish  both  on  the  one  side  and  on  the  other,  in  the 
course  of  Achilles  and  in  that  of  the  tortoise,  the  sub- 
multiples  of  the  steps  of  each  of  them;  but  respect  the 
natural  articulations  of  the  two  courses.  As  long  as  you 
respect  them,  no  difficulty  will  arise,  because  you  will 
follow  the  indications  of  experience.  But  Zeno’s  device 
is  to  reconstruct  the  movement  of  Achilles  according  to  a 
law  arbitrarily  chosen.  Achilles  with  a first  step  is  sup- 
posed to  arrive  at  the  point  where  the  tortoise  was,  with  a 
second  step  at  the  point  which  it  has  moved  to  while  he 
was  making  the  first,  and  so  on.  In  this  case,  Achilles 
would  always  have  a new  step  to  take.  But  obviously, 
to  overtake  the  tortoise,  he  goes  about  it  in  quite  another 
way.  The  movement  considered  by  Zeno  would  only  be 
the  equivalent  of  the  movement  of  Achilles  if  we  could 
treat  the  movement  as  we  treat  the  interval  passed  through, 
decomposable  and  recomposable  at  will.  Once  you  sub- 
scribe to  this  first  absurdity,  all  the  others  follow.  ‘ 

1 That  is,  we  do  not  consider  the  sophism  of  Zeno  refuted  by  the  fact 
that  the  geometrical  progression  « ( l + ^ + „2  "b  ^ + • • •>  — in 

which  a designates  the  initial  distance  between  Achilles  and  the  tortoise, 
and  n the  relation  of  their  respective  velocities — has  a finite  sum  if 
n is  greater  than  1.  On  this  point  we  may  refer  to  the  arguments  of 
F.  Evellin,  which  we  regard  as  conclusive  (see  Evellin,  Infini  et  quaniite, 
Paris,  1880,  pp.  63-97;  cf.  Revue  philosophique,  vol.  xi.,  1881,  pp.  564- 


312 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


Nothing  would  be  easier,  now,  than  to  extend  Zeno’s 
argument  to  qualitative  becoming  and  to  evolutionary 
becoming.  We  should  find  the  same  contradictions 
in  these.  That  the  child  can  become  a youth,  ripen  to 
maturity  and  decline  to  old  age,  we  understand  when  we 
consider  that  vital  evolution  is  here  the  reality  itself. 
Infancy,  adolescence,  maturity,  old  age,  are  mere  views 
of  the  mind,  possible  stops  imagined  by  us,  from  without, 
alon^  the  continuity  of  a progress.  On  the  contrary,  let 
childhood,  adolescence,  maturity  and  old  age  be  given  as 
integral  parts  of  the  evolution,  they  become  real  stops,  and 
we  can  no  longer  conceive  how  evolution  is  possible,  for 
rests  placed  beside  rests  will  never  be  equivalent  to  a 
movement.  How,  with  what  is  made,  can  we  reconsti- 
tute what  is  being  made?  How,  for  instance,  from  child- 
hood once  posited  as  a thing,  shall  we  pass  to  adolescence, 
when,  by  the  hypothesis,  childhood  only  is  given?  If  we 
look  at  it  closely,  we  shall  see  that  our  habitual  manner  of 
speaking,  which  is  fashioned  after  our  habitual  manner 
of  thinking,  leads  us  to  actual  logical  deadlocks — dead- 
locks to  which  w^e  allow  oui'selves  to  be  led  without  anxiety, 
because  we  feel  confusedly  that  we  can  always  get  out  of 
them  if  we  like:  all  that  we  have  to  do,  in  fact,  is  to  give 
up  the  cinematographical  habits  of  our  intellect.  When 
we  say  ‘‘The  child  becomes  a man,”  let  us  take  care  not  to 
fathom  too  deeply  the  literal  meaning  of  the  expression, 
or  we  shall  find  that,  when  we  posit  the  subject  “child,” 
the  attribute  “man”  does  not  yet  apply  to  it,  and  that, 

568).  The  truth  is  that  mathematics,  as  we  have  tried  to  show  in  a 
former  work,  deals  and  can  deal  only  with  lengths.  It  has  therefore 
had  to  seek  devices,  first,  to  transfer  to  the  movement,  which  is  not  a 
length,  the  divisibility  of  the  line  passed  over,  and  then  to  reconcile 
with  experience  the  idea  (contrary  to  experience  and  full  of  absurdities) 
of  a movement  that  is  a length,  that  is,  of  a movement  placed  upon  its 
trajectory  and  arbitrarily  decomposable  like  it. 


IV.l 


FORM  AND  BECOMING 


313 


when  we  express  the  attribute  “man/’  it  applies  no  more 
to  the  subject  “ child.”  The  reality,  which  is  the  transition 
from  childhood  to  manhood,  has  slipped  between  our 
fingers.  We  have  only  the  imaginary  stops  “child”  and 
“man,”  and  we  are  very  near  to  saying  that  one  of  these 
stops  is  the  other,  just  as  the  arrow  of  Zeno  is,  according 
to  that  philosopher,  at  all  the  points  of  the  course.  The 
truth  is  that  if  language  here  were  molded  on  reality,  we 
should  not  say  “The  child  becomes  the  man,”  but  “There 
is  becoming  from  the  child  to  the  man.”  In  the  first 
proposition,  “becomes”  is  a verb  of  indeterminate  meaning, 
intended  to  mask  the  absurdity  into  which  we  fall  when  we 
attribute  the  state  “man”  to  the  subject  “child.”  It 
behaves  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  movement,  always 
the  same,  of  the  cinematographical  film,  a movement 
hidden  in  the  apparatus  and  whose  function  it  is  to  super- 
pose the  successive  pictures  on  one  another  in  order  to 
imitate  the  movement  of  the  real  object.  In  the  second 
proposition,  “becoming”  is  a subject.  It  comes  to  the 
front.  It  is  the  reality  itself;  childhood  and  manhood 
are  then  only  possible  stops,  mere  views  of  the  mind; 
we  now  have  to  do  with  the  objective  movement  itself, 
and  no  longer  with  its  cinematographical  imitation.  But 
the  first  manner  of  expression  is  alone  conformable  to 
our  habits  of  language.  We  must,  in  order  to  adopt 
the  second,  escape  from  the  cinematographical  mechanism 
of  thought. 

We  must  make  complete  abstraction  of  this  mechan- 
ism, if  we  wish  to  get  rid  at  one  stroke  of  the  theoretical 
absurdities  that  the  question  of  movement  raises.  All 
is  obscure,  all  is  contradictory  when  we  try,  with  states, 
to  build  up  a transition.  The  obscurity  is  cleared  up, 
the  contradiction  vanishes,  as  soon  as  we  place  ourselves 
along  the  transition,  in  order  to  distinguish  states  in  it 


314 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


by  making  cross  cuts  therein  in  thought.  The  reason 
is  that  there  is  more  in  the  transition  than  the  series  of 
states,  that  is  to  say,  the  possible  cuts — more  in  the  move- 
ment than  the  series  of  positions,  that  is  to  say,  the  possible 
stops.  Only,  the  first  way  of  looking  at  things  is  con- 
formable to  the  processes  of  the  human  mind;  the  second 
requires,  on  the  contrary,  that  we  reverse  the  bent  of  our 
intellectual  habits.  No  wonder,  then,  if  philosophy  at  first 
recoiled  before  such  an  effort.  The  Greeks  trusted  to  nature, 
trusted  the  natural  propensity  of  the  mind,  trusted  language 
above  all,  in  so  far  as  it  naturally  externalizes  thought. 
Rather  than  lay  blame  on  the  attitude  of  thought  and 
language  toward  the  course  of  things,  they  preferred  to 
pronounce  the  course  of  things  itself  to  be  wTong. 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  sentence  passed  by  the  philoso- 
phers of  the  Eleatic  school.  And  they  passed  it  with- 
out any  reservation  whatever.  As  becoming  shocks  the 
habits  of  thought  and  fits  ill  into  the  molds  of  language, 
they  declared  it  unreal.  In  spatial  movement  and  in 
change  in  general  they  saw  only  pure  illusion.  This  con- 
clusion could  be  softened  down  without  changing  the 
premisses,  by  saying  that  the  reality  changes,  but  that  it 
ought  not  to  change.  Experience  confronts  us  with  be- 
coming: that  is  sensible  reality.  But  the  intelligible  reality, 
that  which  ought  to  be,  is  more  real  still,  and  that  reality 
does  not  change.  Beneath  the  qualitative  becoming, 
beneath  the  evolutionary  becoming,  beneath  the  extensive 
becoming,  the  mind  must  seek  that  which  defies  change, 
the  definable  quality,  the  form  or  essence,  the  end.  Such 
was  the  fundamental  principle  of  the  philosophy  which 
developed  throughout  the  classic  age,  the  philosophy  of 
Forms,  or,  to  use  a term  more  akin  to  the  Greek,  the  philoso- 
phy of  Ideas. 

The  word  eidos^  which  we  translate  here  by  ‘^Idea/’  has, 


IV.l 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


315 


in  fact,  this  threefold  meaning.  It  denotes  (1)  the  quality, 
(2)  the  form  or  essence,  (3)  the  end  or  design  (in  the  sense 
of  intention)  of  the  act  being  performed,  that  is  to  say,  at 
bottom,  the  design  (in  the  sense  of  dravnng)  of  the  act  sup- 
posed accomplished.  These  three  aspects  are  those  of  the 
adjective,  substantive  and  verb,  and  correspond  to  the  three 
essential  categories  of  language.  After  the  explanations 
we  have  given  above,  vre  might,  and  perhaps  we  ought  to, 
translate  by  “view’’  or  rather  by  “moment.”  For 
udos  is  the  stable  view  taken  of  the  instability  of  things: 
the  quality,  which  is  a moment  of  becoming;  the/om,  which 
is  a moment  of  evolution;  the  essence,  which  is  the  mean 
form  above  and  below  which  the  other  forms  are  arranged 
as  alterations  of  the  mean;  finally,  the  intention  or  mental 
design  which  presides  over  the  action  being  accomplished, 
and  which  is  nothing  else,  we  said,  than  the  material  design, 
traced  out  and  contemplated  beforehand,  of  the  action 
accomplished.  To  reduce  things  to  Ideas  is  therefore  to 
resolve  becoming  into  its  principal  moments,  each  of  these 
being,  moreover,  by  the  hypothesis,  screened  from  the  laws 
of  time  and,  as  it  were,  plucked  out  of  eternity.  That  is  to 
say  that  we  end  in  the  philosophy  of  Ideas  when  we  apply 
the  cinematographical  mechanism  of  the  intellect  to  the 
analysis  of  the  real. 

But,  when  we  put  immutable  Ideas  at  the  base  of  the 
moving  reality,  a whole  physics,  a whole  cosmology,  a 'whole 
theology  follows  necessarily.  We  must  insist  on  the  point. 
Not  that  we  mean  to  summarize  in  a few  pages  a philosophy 
so  complex  and  so  comprehensive  as  that  of  the  Greeks. 
But,  since  we  have  described  the  cinematographical  mech- 
anism of  the  intellect,  it  is  important  that  we  should  show  to 
what  idea  of  reality  the  play  of  this  mechanism  leads.  It 
is  the  very  idea,  we  believe,  that  we  find  in  the  ancient 
philosophy.  The  main  lines  of  the  doctrine  that  was 


316 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


developed  from  Plato  to  Plotinus,  passing  through  Aristotle 
(and  even,  in  a certain  measure,  through  the  Stoics),  have 
nothing  accidental,  nothing  contingent,  nothing  that  must 
be  regarded  as  a philosopher’s  fancy.  They  indicate  the 
vision  that  a systematic  intellect  obtains  of  the  universal 
becoming  when  regarding  it  by  means  of  snapshots,  taken 
at  intervals,  of  its  flowing.  So  that,  even  to-day,  we  shall 
philosophize  in  the  manner  of  the  Greeks,  we  shall  re- 
discover, without  needing  to  know  them,  such  and  such 
of  their  general  conclusions,  in  the  exact  proportion  that 
we  trust  in  the  cinematographical  instinct  of  our  thought. 

We  said  there  is  more  in  a movement  than  in  the  suc- 
cessive positions  attributed  to  the  moving  object,  more 
in  a becoming  than  in  the  forms  passed  through  in  turn, 
more  in  the  evolution  of  form  than  the  forms  assumed  one 
after  another.  Philosophy  can  therefore  derive  terms  of 
the  second  kind  from  those  of  the  first,  but  not  the  first 
from  the  second:  from  the  first  terms  speculation  must 
take  its  start.  But  the  intellect  reverses  the  order  of  the 
two  groups;  and,  on  this  point,  ancient  philosophy  pro- 
ceeds as  the  intellect  does.  It  installs  itself  in  the  im- 
mutable, it  posits  only  Ideas.  Yet  becoming  exists:  it 
is  a fact.  How,  then,  having  posited  immutability  alone, 
shall  we  make  change  come  forth  from  it?  Not  by  the 
addition  of  anything,  for,  by  the  hypothesis,  there  exists 
nothing  positive  outside  Ideas.  It  must  therefore  be  by  a 
diminution.  So  at  the  base  of  ancient  philosophy  lies 
necessarily  this  postulate:  that  there  is  more  in  the  motion- 
less than  in  the  moving,  and  that  we  pass  from  immuta- 
bility to  becoming  by  way  of  diminution  or  attenuation. 

It  is  therefore  something  negative,  or  zero  at  most,  that 
must  be  added  to  Ideas  to  obtain  change.  In  that  consists 
the  Platonic  “non-being,”  the  Aristotelian  “matter” — a 


IV.l 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


317 


metaphysical  zero  which,  joined  to  the  Idea,  like  the  arith- 
metical zero  to  unity,  multiplies  it  in  space  and  time.  By 
it  the  motionless  and  simple  Idea  is  refracted  into  a move- 
ment spread  out  indefinitely.  In  right,  there  ought  to  be 
nothing  but  immutable  Ideas,  immutably  fitted  to  each 
other.  In  fact,  matter  comes  to  add  to  them  its  void,  and 
thereby  lets  loose  the  universal  becoming.  It  is  an  elusive 
nothing,  that  creeps  between  the  Ideas  and  creates  endless 
agitation,  eternal  disquiet,  like  a suspicion  insinuated  be- 
tween two  loving  hearts.  Degrade  the  immutable  Ideas: 
you  obtain,  by  that  alone,  the  perpetual  flux  of  things. 
The  Ideas  or  Forms  are  the  whole  of  intelligible  reality,  that 
is  to  say,  of  truth,  in  that  they  represent,  all  together,  the 
theoretical  equilibrium  of  Being.  As  to  sensible  reality, 
it  is  a perpetual  oscillation  from  one  side  to  the  other  of 
this  point  of  equilibrium. 

Hence,  throughout  the  whole  philosophy  of  Ideas  there 
is  a certain  conception  of  duration,  as  also  of  the  relation 
of  time  to  eternity.  He  who  installs  himself  in  becoming 
sees  in  duration  the  very  life  of  things,  the  fundamental 
reality.  The  Forms,  which  the  mind  isolates  and  stores 
up  in  concepts,  are  then  only  snapshots  of  the  changing 
reality.  They  are  moments  gathered  along  the  course 
of  time;  and,  just  because  we  have  cut  the  thread  that 
binds  them  to  time,  they  no  longer  endure.  They  tend  to 
withdraw  into  their  own  definition,  that  is  to  say,  into  the 
artificial  reconstruction  and  symbolical  expression  which 
is  their  intellectual  equivalent.  They  enter  into  eternity, 
if  you  will;  but  what  is  eternal  in  them  is  just  what  is  un- 
real. On  the  contrary,  if  we  treat  becoming  by  the  cine- 
matographical  method,  the  Forms  are  no  longer  snapshots 
taken  of  the  change,  they  are  its  constitutive  elements,  they 
represent  all  that  is  positive  in  Becoming.  Eternity  no 
longer  hovers  over  time,  as  an  abstraction;  it  underlies 


318 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


time,  as  a reality.  Such  is  exactly,  on  this  point,  the  atti- 
tude of  the  philosophy  of  Forms  or  Ideas.  It  establishes 
between  eternity  and  time  the  same  relation  as  between 
a piece  of  gold  and  the  small  change — change  so  small  that 
payment  goes  on  for  ever  without  the  debt  being  paid  off. 
The  debt  could  be  paid  at  once  with  the  piece  of  gold.  It 
is  this  that  Plato  expresses  in  his  magnificent  language 
when  he  says  that  God,  unable  to  make  the  world  eternal, 
gave  it  Time,  “a  moving  image  of  eternity.’’^ 

Hence  also  arises  a certain  conception  of  extension, 
which  is  at  the  base  of  the  philosophy  of  Ideas,  although 
it  has  not  been  so  explicitly  brought  out.  Let  us  imagine 
a mind  placed  alongside  becoming,  and  adopting  its  move- 
ment. Each  successive  state,  each  quality,  each  form,  in 
short,  will  be  seen  by  it  as  a mere  cut  made  by  thought  in 
the  universal  becoming.  It  will  be  found  that  form  is 
essentially  extended,  inseparable  as  it  is  from  the  extensity 
of  the  becoming  which  has  materialized  it  in  the  course  of 
its  flow.  Every  form  thus  occupies  space,  as  it  occupies 
time.  But  the  philosophy  of  Ideas  follows  the  inverse 
direction.  It  starts  from  the  Form;  it  sees  in  the  Form  the 
very  essence  of  reality.  It  does  not  take  Form  as  a snap- 
shot of  becoming;  it  posits  Forms  in  the  eternal;  of  this 
motionless  eternity,  then,  duration  and  becoming  are  sup- 
posed to  be  only  the  degradation.  Form  thus  posited,  in- 
dependent of  time,  is  then  no  longer  what  is  found  in  a 
perception;  it  is  a concept.  And,  as  a reality  of  the  con- 
ceptual order  occupies  no  more  of  extension  than  it  does  of 
duration,  the  Forms  must  be  stationed  outside  space  as 
well  as  above  time.  Space  and  time  have  therefore  neces- 
sarily, in  ancient  philosophy,  the  same  origin  and  the  same 
value.  The  same  diminution  of  being  is  expressed  both 
by  extension  in  space  and  detention  in  time.  Both  of  these 
1 Plato,  Timaeus,  37  d. 


IV.l 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


319 


are  but  the  distance  between  what  is  and  what  ought  to  be. 
From  the  standpoint  of  ancient  philosophy,  space  and 
time  can  be  nothing  but  the  field  that  an  incomplete  reality, 
or  rather  a reality  that  has  gone  astray  from  itself,  needs  in 
order  to  run  in  quest  of  itself.  Only  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  field  is  created  as  the  hunting  progresses,  and  that 
the  hunting  in  some  way  deposits  the  field  beneath  it. 
Move  an  imaginary  pendulum,  a mere  mathematical  point, 
from  its  position  of  equilibrium:  a perpetual  oscillation 
is  started,  along  which  points  are  placed  next  to  points, 
and  moments  succeed  moments.  The  space  and  time 
which  thus  arise  have  no  more  “ positivity”  than  the  move- 
ment itself.  They  represent  the  remoteness  of  the  position 
artificially  given  to  the  pendulum  from  its  normal  position, 
what  it  lacks  in  order  to  regain  its  natural  stability.  Bring 
it  back  to  its  normal  position:  space,  time  and  motion 
shrink  to  a mathematical  point.  Just  so,  human  reason- 
ings are  drawn  out  into  an  endless  chain,  but  are  at  once 
swallowed  up  in  the  truth  seized  by  intuition,  for  their 
extension  in  space  and  time  is  only  the  distance,  so  to  speak, 
between  thought  and  truth. ^ So  of  extension  and  duration 
in  relation  to  pure  Forms  or  Ideas.  The  sensible  forms  are 
before  us,  ever  about  to  recover  their  ideality,  ever  pre- 
vented by  the  matter  they  bear  in  them,  that  is  to  say,  by 
their  inner  void,  by  the  interval  between  what  they  are  and 
what  they  ought  to  be.  They  are  for  ever  on  the  point 
of  recovering  themselves,  for  ever  occupied  in  losing  them- 
selves. An  inflexible  law  condemns  them,  like  the  rock  of 
Sisyphus,  to  fall  back  when  they  are  almost  touching  the 
summit,  and  this  law,  which  has  projected  them  into  space 
and  time,  is  nothing  other  than  the  very  constancy  of  their 

1 We  have  tried  to  bring  out  what  is  true  and  what  is  false  in  this  idea, 
so  far  as  spatiality  is  concerned  (see  Chapter  III.).  It  seems  to  us 
radically  false  as  regards  duration. 


320 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


original  insufficiency.  The  alternations  of  generation  and 
decay,  the  evolutions  ever  beginning  over  and  over  again, 
the  infinite  repetition  of  the  cycles  of  celestial  spheres — 
this  all  represents  merely  a certain  fundamental  deficit, 
in  which  materiality  consists.  Fill  up  this  deficit:  at  once 
you  suppress  space  and  time,  that  is  to  say,  the  endlessly 
renewed  oscillations  around  a stable  equilibrium  always 
aimed  at,  never  reached.  Things  re-enter  into  each  other. 
What  was  extended  in  space  is  contracted  into  pure  Form. 
And  past,  present,  and  future  shrink  into  a single  moment, 
which  is  eternity. 

This  amounts  to  saying  that  physics  is  but  logic  spoiled. 
In  this  proposition  the  whole  philosophy  of  Ideas  is  sum- 
marized. And  in  it  also  is  the  hidden  principle  of  the 
philosophy  that  is  innate  in  our  understanding.  If  im- 
mutability is  more  than  becoming,  form  is  more  than 
change,  and  it  is  by  a veritable  fall  that  the  logical  system 
of  Ideas,  rationally  subordinated  and  coordinated  among 
themselves,  is  scattered  into  a physical  series  of  objects  and 
events  accidentally  placed  one  after  another.  The  genera- 
tive idea  of  a poem  is  developed  in  thousands  of  imaginations 
which  are  materialized  in  phrases  that  spread  themselves 
out  in  words.  And  the  more  we  descend  from  the  motion- 
less idea,  wound  on  itself,  to  the  words  that  unwind  it, 
the  more  room  is  left  for  contingency  and  choice.  Other 
metaphors,  expressed  by  other  words,  might  have  arisen; 
an  image  is  called  up  by  an  image,  a word  by  a word.  All 
these  words  run  now  one  after  another,  seeking  in  vain,  by 
themselves,  to  give  back  the  simplicity  of  the  generative 
idea.  Our  ear  only  hears  the  words:  it  therefore  per- 
ceives only  accidents.  But  our  mind,  by  successive  bounds, 
leaps  from  the  words  to  the  images,  from  the  images  to  the 
original  idea,  and  so  gets  back,  from  the  perception  of 
words — accidents  called  up  by  accidents — to  the  con- 


IV.] 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


321 


ception  of  the  Idea  that  posits  its  ov^^n  being.  So  the 
philosopher  proceeds,  confronted  with  the  universe.  Ex- 
perience makes  to  pass  before  his  eyes  phenomena  which 
run,  they  also,  one  behind  another  in  an  accidental  order 
determined  by  circumstances  of  time  and  place.  This 
physical  order — a degeneration  of  the  logical  order — is 
nothing  else  but  the  fall  of  the  logical  into  space  and  time. 
But  the  philosopher,  ascending  again  from  the  percept  to 
the  concept,  sees  condensed  into  the  logical  all  the  positive 
reality  that  the  physical  possesses.  His  intellect,  doing 
away  with  the  materiality  that  lessens  being,  grasps  being 
itself  in  the  immutable  system  of  Ideas.  Thus  Science 
is  obtained,  which  appears  to  us,  complete  and  ready-made, 
as  soon  as  we  put  back  our  intellect  into  its  true  place, 
correcting  the  deviation  that  separated  it  from  the  in- 
telligible. Science  is  not,  then,  a human  construction. 
It  is  prior  to  our  intellect,  independent  of  it,  veritably  the 
generator  of  Things. 

And  indeed,  if  we  hold  the  Forms  to  be  simply  snapshots 
taken  by  the  mhnd  of  the  continuity  of  becoming,  they  must 
be  relative  to  the  mind  that  thinks  them,  they  can  have  no 
independent  existence.  At  most  we  might  say  that  each 
of  these  Ideas  is  an  ideal.  But  it  is  in  the  opposite  hypothe- 
sis that  we  are  placing  ourselves.  Ideas  must  then  exist  by 
themselves.  Ancient  philosophy  could  not  escape  this 
conclusion.  Plato  formulated  it,  and  in  vain  did  Aristotle 
strive  to  avoid  it.  Since  movement  arises  from  the  de- 
gradation of  the  immutable,  there  could  be  no  movement, 
consequently  no  sensible  world,  if  there  w^re  not,  some- 
where, immutability  realized.  So,  having  begun  by  refus- 
ing to  Ideas  an  independent  existence,  and  finding  himself 
nevertheless  unable  to  deprive  them  of  it,  Aristotle  pressed 
them  into  each  other,  rolled  them  up  into  a ball,  and  set 
above  the  physical  world  a Form  that  was  thus  found  to  be 


322 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


the  Form  of  Forms,  the  Idea  of  Ideas,  or,  to  use  his  own 
words,  the  Thought  of  Thought.  Such  is  the  God  of 
Aristotle — necessarily  immutable  and  apart  from  what  is 
happening  in  the  world,  since  he  is  only  the  synthesis  of 
all  concepts  in  a single  concept.  It  is  true  that  no  one 
of  the  manifold  concepts  could  exist  apart,  such  as  it  is  in 
the  divine  unity:  in  vain  should  we  look  for  the  ideas  of 
Plato  within  the  God  of  Aristotle.  But  if  only  we  im- 
agine the  God  of  Aristotle  in  a sort  of  refraction  of  him- 
self, or  simply  inclining  toward  the  world,  at  once  the 
Platonic  Ideas  are  seen  to  pour  themselves  out  of  him, 
as  if  they  were  involved  in  the  unity  of  his  essence:  so  rays 
stream  out  from  the  sun,  which  nevertheless  did  not  contain 
them.  It  is  probably  this  possibility  of  an  outpouring  of 
Platonic  Ideas  from  the  Aristotelian  God  that  is  meant, 
in  the  philosophy  of  Aristotle,  by  the  active  intellect,  the 
vous  that  has  been  called  -oiTjUKos — that  is,  by  what  is 
essential  and  yet  unconscious  in  human  intelligence.  The 
vous  r.otrixcKos  is  Science  entire,  posited  all  at  once,  which 
the  conscious,  discursive  intellect  is  condemned  to  re- 
construct with  difficulty,  bit  by  bit.  There  is  then  with- 
in us,  or  rather  behind  us,  a possible  vision  of  God,  as 
the  Alexandrians  said,  a vision  always  virtual,  never 
actually  realized  by  the  conscious  intellect.  In  this  in- 
tuition we  should  see  God  expand  in  Ideas.  This  it  is 
that  “does  everything, playing  in  relation  to  the  dis- 
cursive intellect,  which  moves  in  time,  the  same  role  as  the 
motionless  Mover  himself  plays  in  relation  to  the  movement 
of  the  heavens  and  the  course  of  things. 

There  is,  then,  immanent  in  the  philosophy  of  Ideas, 
a particular  conception  of  causality,  which  it  is  important 

1 Aristotle,  De  anima,  430  a 14  ko}  laziv  d plv  Tocoircos  vous  zo)  Tzdvza 
ycveadou,  6 dk  zgj  ndvza  r.oizcv,  cos  £$£s  zcs,  ocov  z6  cpcos.  zpOTzov  yap 
zcva  Ka  zb  cpcos  Tzocd  zd  duvdpzc  ovza  ypcopaza  ivzpytia  ypwpaza. 


TV.] 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


323 


to  bring  into  full  light,  because  it  is  that  which  each  of  us 
will  reach  when,  in  order  to  ascend  to  the  origin  of  things, 
he  follows  to  the  end  the  natural  movement  of  the  intellect. 
True,  the  ancient  philosophers  never  formulated  it  ex- 
plicitly. They  confined  themselves  to  drawing  the  con- 
sequences of  it,  and,  in  general,  they  have  marked  but 
points  of  view  of  it  rather  than  presented  it  itself.  Some- 
times, indeed,  they  speak  of  an  attraction,  sometimes  of  an 
im'pulsion  exercised  by  the  prime  mover  on  the  whole  of  the 
world.  Both  views  are  found  in  Aristotle,  who  show's  us 
in  the  movement  of  the  universe  an  aspiration  of  things 
tow'ard  the  divine  perfection,  and  consequently  an  ascent 
tow'ard  God,  wLile  he  describes  it  elsewLere  as  the  effect 
of  a contact  of  God  wfith  the  first  sphere  and  as  descending, 
consequently,  from  God  to  things.  The  Alexandrians,  we 
think,  do  no  more  than  follow  this  double  indication  when 
they  speak  of  'procession  and  conversion.  Everything  is 
derived  from  the  first  principle,  and  everything  aspires  to 
return  to  it.  But  these  two  conceptions  of  the  divine 
causality  can  only  be  identified  together  if  w'e  bring  them, 
both  the  one  and  the  other,  back  to  a third,  which  we  hold 
to  be  fundamental,  and  w'hich  alone  wfill  enable  us  to  under- 
stand, not  only  wLy,  in  w'hat  sense,  things  move  in  space 
and  time,  but  also  why  there  is  space  and  time,  why  there 
is  movement,  why  there  are  things. 

This  conception,  which  more  and  more  shows  through 
the  reasonings  of  the  Greek  philosophers  as  we  go  from 
Plato  to  Plotinus,  w^e  may  formulate  thus:  The  affirmation 
of  a reality  implies  the  simultaneous  affirmation  of  all  the 
degrees  of  reality  intermediate  between  it  and  nothing.  The 
principle  is  evident  in  the  case  of  number:  we  cannot 
affirm  the  number  10  without  thereby  affirming  the  exis- 
tence of  the  numbers  9,  8,  7, . . .,  etc. — in  short,  of  the  wLole 
interval  betw'een  10  and  zero.  But  here  our  mind  passes 


324 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


naturally  from  the  sphere  of  quantity  to  that  of  quality. 
It  seems  to  us  that,  a certain  perfection  being  given,  the 
whole  continuity  of  degradations  is  given  also  between  this 
perfection,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  nought,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  we  think  we  conceive.  Let  us  then  posit  the 
God  of  Aristotle,  thought  of  thought — that  is,  thought 
making  a circle,  transforming  itself  from  subject  to  object 
and  from  object  to  subject  by  an  instantaneous,  or  rather 
an^eternal,  circular  process:  as,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
nought  appears  to  posit  itself,  and  as,  the  two  extremities 
being  given,  the  interval  between  them  is  equally  given, 
it  follows  that  all  the  descending  degrees  of  being,  from  the 
divine  perfection  down  to  the  “absolute  nothing,’’  are 
realized  automatically,  so  to  speak,  when  we  have  posited 
God. 

Let  us  then  run  through  this  interval  from  top  to  bottom. 
First  of  all,  the  slightest  diminution  of  the  first  principle 
will  be  enough  to  precipitate  Being  into  space  and  time; 
but  duration  and  extension,  which  represent  this  first 
diminution,  will  be  as  near  as  possible  to  the  divine  inex- 
tension and  eternity.  We  must  therefore  picture  to  our- 
selves this  first  degradation  of  the  divine  principle  as  a 
sphere  turning  on  itself,  imitating,  by  the  perpetuity  of  its 
circular  movement,  the  eternity  of  the  circle  of  the  divine 
thought;  creating,  moreover,  its  own  place,  and  thereby 
place  in  general,  ‘ since  it  includes  without  being  included 
and  moves  without  stirring  from  the  spot;  creating  also 
its  own  duration,  and  thereby  duration  in  general,  since  its 
movement  is  the  measure  of  all  mot  ion.  ^ Then,  by  de- 

1 De  caelo,  ii.  287  a 12  rijs  ioxdrqs  7:s.pi(pop6.s  outs  kzvov  laxiv  l^coOz'u 
ojze  TOTios.  Phys.  iv.  212  a 34  zb  di  xav  lazt  pkv  ujs  KcvrjOEZcu  iaz: 
d'ojs  ou.  ws  filv  ydp  oXov,  dpa  zbv  zoxov  du  pEza^dXXet.  kukXoj  os 
Kcvqosza!,  zojv  popcojv  yap  ouzos  6 zoxos. 

2 De  caelo,  i.  279  a 12  oudl  lazcu  e$(o  zou  oupavou,  Phys.  viii, 

251  b 27  0 xp^^os  xddos  zi  Kcvyasios. 


IV.l 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


325 


grees,  we  shall  see  the  perfection  decrease,  more  and  more, 
down  to  our  sublunary  world,  in  which  the  cycle  of  birth, 
growth  and  decay  imitates  and  mars  the  original  circle  for 
the  last  time.  So  understood,  the  causal  relation  between 
God  and  the  world  is  seen  as  an  attraction  when  regarded 
from  below,  as  an  impulsion  or  a contact  when  regarded 
from  above,  since  the  first  heaven,  with  its  circular  move- 
ment, is  an  imitation  of  God  and  all  imitation  is  the  re- 
ception of  a form.  Therefore,  we  perceive  God  as  efficient 
cause  or  as  final  cause,  according  to  the  point  of  view. 
And  yet  neither  of  these  two  relations  is  the  ultimate 
causal  relation.  The  true  relation  is  that  which  is  found 
between  the  two  members  of  an  equation,  when  the  first 
member  is  a single  term  and  the  second  a sum  of  an  end- 
less number  of  terms.  It  is,  we  may  say,  the  relation  of 
the  gold-piece  to  the  small  change,  if  we  suppose  the  change 
to  offer  itself  automatically  as  soon  as  the  gold  piece  is 
presented.  Only  thus  can  we  understand  why  Aristotle 
has  demonstrated  the  necessity  of  a first  motionless  mover, 
not  by  founding  it  on  the  assertion  that  the  movement 
of  things  must  have  had  a beginning,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
by  affirming  that  this  movement  could  not  have  begun  and 
can  never  come  to  an  end.  If  movement  exists,  or,  in 
other  words,  if  the  small  change  is  being  counted,  the  gold- 
piece  is  to  be  found  somewhere.  And  if  the  counting  goes 
on  for  ever,  having  never  begun,  the  single  term  that  is 
eminently  equivalent  to  it  must  be  eternal.  A perpetuity 
of  mobility  is  possible  only  if  it  is  backed  by  an  eternity 
of  immutability,  which  it  unwinds  in  a chain  without  be- 
ginning or  end. 

Such  is  the  last  word  of  the  Greek  philosophy.  We  have 
not  attempted  to  reconstruct  it  a 'priori.  It  has  manifold 
origins.  It  is  connected  by  many  invisible  threads  to 
the  soul  of  ancient  Greece.  Vain,  therefore,  the  effort 


326 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  deduce  it  from  a simple  principle. ‘ But  if  everything 
that  has  come  from  poetry,  religion,  social  life  and  a still 
rudimentary  physics  and  biology  be  removed  from  it,  if 
we  take  away  all  the  light  material  that  may  have  been 
used  in  the  construction  of  the  stately  building,  a solid 
framework  remains,  and  this  framework  marks  out  the 
main  lines  of  a metaphysic  which  is,  we  believe,  the  natural 
metaphysic  of  the  human  intellect.  We  come  to  a philoso- 
phy of  this  kind,  indeed,  w^henever  we  follow  to  the  end, 
the  cinematographical  tendency  of  perception  and  thought. 
Our  perception  and  thought  begin  by  substituting  for  the 
continuity  of  evolutionary  change  a series  of  unchangeable 
forms  which  are  turn  by  turn,  “caught  on  the  wing,”  like 
the  rings  at  a merry-go-round,  which  the  children  unhook 
with  their  little  stick  as  they  are  passing.  Now,  how  can 
the  forms  be  passing,  and  on  what  “stick”  are  they  strung? 
As  the  stable  forms  have  been  obtained  by  extracting  from 
change  everything  that  is  definite,  there  is  nothing  left, 
to  characterize  the  instability  on  which  the  forms  are  laid, 
but  a negative  attribute,  which  must  be  indetermination 
itself.  Such  is  the  first  proceeding  of  our  thought:  it 
dissociates  each  change  into  two  elements — the  one  stable, 
definable  for  each  particular  case,  to  wit,  the  Form;  the 
other  indefinable  and  always  the  same.  Change  in  general. 
And  such,  also,  is  the  essential  operation  of  language. 
Forms  are  all  that  it  is  capable  of  expressing.  It  is  reduced 
to  taking  as  understood  or  is  limited  to  suggesting  a mo- 
bility which,  just  because  it  is  always  unexpressed,  is 
thought  to  remain  in  all  cases  the  same. — Then  comes  in  a 
philosophy  that  holds  the  dissociation  thus  effected  by 
thought  and  language  to  be  legitimate.  What  can  it  do, 

* Especially  have  we  left  almost  entirely  on  one  side  those  admirable 
but  somewhat  fugitive  intuitions  that  Plotinus  was  later  to  seize,  to 
study  and  to  fix. 


IV.l 


PLATO  AND  ARISTOTLE 


327 


except  objectify  the  distinction  with  more  force,  push  it 
to  its  extreme  consequences,  reduce  it  into  a system?  It 
will  therefore  construct  the  real,  on  the  one  hand,  with 
definite  Forms  or  immutable  elements,  and,  on  the  other, 
with  a principle  of  mobility  which,  being  the  negation  of 
the  form,  will,  by  the  hypothesis,  escape  all  definition  and  be 
the  purely  indeterminate.  The  more  it  directs  its  attention 
to  the  forms  delineated  by  thought  and  expressed  by 
language,  the  more  it  will  see  them  rise  above  the  sensible 
and  become  subtilized  into  pure  concepts,  capable  of  enter- 
ing one  within  the  other,  and  even  of  being  at  last  massed 
together  into  a single  concept,  the  synthesis  of  all  reality, 
the  achievement  of  all  perfection.  The  more,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  descends  toward  the  invisible  source  of  the  uni- 
versal mobility,  the  more  it  will  feel  this  mobility  sink 
beneath  it  and  at  the  same  time  become  void,  vanish  into 
what  it  will  call  the  “non-being.”  Finally,  it  will  have 
on  the  one  hand  the  system  of  ideas,  logically  coordinated 
together  or  concentrated  into  one  only,  on  the  other  a 
quasi-nought,  the  Platonic  “non-being”  or  the  Aristotelian 
“matter.” — But,  having  cut  your  cloth,  you  must  sew  it. 
With  supra-sensible  Ideas  and  an  infra-sensible  non-being, 
you  now  have  to  reconstruct  the  sensible  world.  You  can 
do  so  only  if  you  postulate  a kind  of  metaphysical  necessity 
in  virtue  of  which  the  confronting  of  this  All  wfith  this 
Zero  is  equivalent  to  the  affirmation  of  all  the  degrees  of 
reality  that  measure  the  interval  between  them — just  as  an 
undivided  number,  when  regarded  as  a difference  between 
itself  and  zero,  is  revealed  as  a certain  sum  of  units,  and 
with  its  own  affirmation  affirms  all  the  lower  numbers. 
That  is  the  natural  postulate.  It  is  that  also  that  we  per- 
ceive as  the  base  of  the  Greek  philosophy.  In  order  then 
to  explain  the  specific  characters  of  each  of  these  degrees 
of  intermediate  reality,  nothing  more  is  necessary  than 


328 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  measure  the  distance  that  separates  it  from  the  integral 
reality.  Each  lower  degree  consists  in  a diminution  of 
the  higher,  and  the  sensible  newness  that  we  perceive  in  it 
is  resolved,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  intelligible,  into  a 
new  quantity  of  negation  which  is  superadded  to  it.  The 
smallest  possible  quantity  of  negation,  that  which  is  found 
already  in  the  highest  forms  of  sensible  reality,  and  con- 
sequently a fortiori  in  the  lower  forms,  is  that  which  is 
expressed  by  the  most  general  attributes  of  sensible  reality, 
extension  and  duration.  By  increasing  degradations  we 
will  obtain  attributes  more  and  more  special.  Here  the 
philosopher's  fancy  will  have  free  scope,  for  it  is  by  an 
arbitrary  decree,  or  at  least  a debatable  one,  that  a particu- 
lar aspect  of  the  sensible  world  will  be  equated  with  a 
particular  diminution  of  being.  We  shall  not  necessarily 
end,  as  Aristotle  did,  in  a world  consisting  of  concentric 
spheres  turning  on  themselves.  But  we  shall  be  led  to  an 
analogous  cosmology — I mean,  to  a construction  w^hose 
pieces,  though  all  different,  will  have  none  the  less  the  same 
relations  between  them.  And  this  cosmology  will  be 
ruled  by  the  same  principle.  The  physical  will  be  defined 
by  the  logical.  Beneath  the  changing  phenomena  will 
appear  to  us,  by  transparence,  a closed  system  of  concepts 
subordinated  to  and  coordinated  with  each  other.  Science, 
understood  as  the  system  of  concepts,  will  be  more  real 
than  the  sensible  reality.  It  will  be  prior  to  human  know- 
ledge, which  is  only  able  to  spell  it  letter  by  letter;  prior 
also  to  things,  which  awkwardly  try  to  imitate  it.  It 
would  only  have  to  be  diverted  an  instant  from  itself 
in  order  to  step  out  of  its  eternity  and  thereby  coincide 
with  all  this  knowledge  and  all  these  things.  Its  immu- 
tability is  therefore,  indeed,  the  cause  of  the  universal 
becoming. 

Such  was  the  point  of  view  of  ancient  philosophy  in 


IV.J 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


329 


regard  to  change  and  duration.  That  modern  philosophy 
has  repeatedly,  but  especially  in  its  beginnings,  had  the 
wish  to  depart  from  it,  seems  to  us  unquestionable.  But 
an  irresistible  attraction  brings  the  intellect  back  to  its 
natural  movement,  and  the  metaphysic  of  the  moderns 
to  the  general  conclusions  of  the  Greek  metaphysic.  We 
must  try  to  make  this  point  clear,  in  order  to  show  by  what 
invisible  threads  our  mechanistic  philosophy  remains 
bound  to  the  ancient  philosophy  of  Ideas,  and  how  also  it 
responds  to  the  requirements,  above  all  practical,  of  our 
understanding. 

Modern,  like  ancient,  science  proceeds  according  to  the 
cinematographical  method.  It  cannot  do  otherwise;  all 
science  is  subject  to  this  law.  For  it  is  of  the  essence  of 
science  to  handle  signs,  which  it  substitutes  for  the  objects 
themselves.  These  signs  undoubtedly  differ  from  those 
of  language  by  their  greater  precision  and  their  higher 
efficacy;  they  are  none  the  less  tied  down  to  the  general 
condition  of  the  sign,  which  is  to  denote  a fixed  aspect  of 
the  reality  under  an  arrested  form.  In  order  to  think 
movement,  a constantly  renewed  effort  of  the  mind  is 
necessary.  Signs  are  made  to  dispense  us  with  this  effort 
by  substituting,  for  the  moving  continuity  of  things,  an 
artificial  reconstruction  which  is  its  equivalent  in  practice 
and  has  the  advantage  of  being  easily  handled.  But  let 
us  leave  aside  the  means  and  consider  only  the  end.  What 
is  the  essential  object  of  science?  It  is  to  enlarge  our 
influence  over  things.  Science  may  be  speculative  in  its 
form,  disinterested  in  its  immediate  ends;  in  other  words 
we  may  give  it  as  long  a credit  as  it  wants.  But,  however 
long  the  day  of  reckoning  may  be  put  off,  some  time  or 
other  the  payment  must  be  made.  It  is  always  then,  in 
short,  practical  utility  that  science  has  in  view.  Even 


330 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


when  it  launches  into  theory,  it  is  bound  to  adapt  its  be- 
havior to  the  general  form  of  practice.  However  high 
it  may  rise,  it  must  be  ready  to  fall  back  into  the  field  of 
action,  and  at  once  to  get  on  its  feet.  This  would  not  be 
possible  for  it,  if  iis  rhythm  differed  absolutely  from  that 
of  action  itself.  Now^  action,  w^e  have  said,  proceeds  by 
leaps.  To  act  is  to  re-adapt  oneself.  To  know,  that  is  to 
say,  to  foresee  in  order  to  act,  is  then  to  go  from  situation 
to  situation,  from  arrangement  to  rearrangement.  Science 
may  consider  rearrangements  that  come  closer  and  closer 
to  each  other;  it  may  thus  increase  the  number  of  moments 
that  it  isolates,  but  it  always  isolates  moments.  As  to 
what  happens  in  the  interval  between  the  moments,  science 
is  no  more  concerned  with  that  than  are  our  common  in- 
telligence, our  senses  and  our  language:  it  does  not  bear 
on  the  interval,  but  only  on  the  extremities.  So  the  cine- 
matographical  method  forces  itself  upon  our  science,  as  it 
did  already  on  that  of  the  ancients. 

Wherein,  then,  is  the  difference  between  the  two  sciences? 
We  indicated  it  when  we  said  that  the  ancients  reduced  the 
physical  order  to  the  vital  order,  that  is  to  say,  laws  to 
genera,  while  the  moderns  try  to  resolve  genera  into  laws. 
But  we  have  to  look  at  it  in  another  aspect,  which,  more- 
over, is  only  a transposition,  of  the  first.  Wherein  consists 
the  difference  of  attitude  of  the  two  sciences  toward  change? 
We  may  formulate  it  by  saying  that  ancient  science  thinks 
it  knows  its  object  sufficiently  when  it  has  noted  of  it  some 
'privileged  moments,  whereas  modem  science  considers  the 
object  at  any  moment  whatever. 

The  forms  or  ideas  of  Plato  or  of  Aristotle  correspond 
to  privileged  or  salient  moments  in  the  history  of  things — 
those,  in  general,  that  have  been  fixed  by  language.  They 
are  supposed,  like  the  childhood  or  the  old  age  of  a living 
being,  to  characterize  a period  of  which  they  express  the 


IV.J 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


331 


quintessence,  all  the  rest  of  this  period  being  filled  by  the 
passage,  of  no  interest  in  itself,  from  one  form  to  another 
form.  Take,  for  instance,  a falling  body.  It  was  thought 
that  we  got  near  enough  to  the  fact  when  we  characterized 
it  as  a whole:  it  was  a movement  downward;  it  was  the 
tendency  toward  a centre]  it  was  the  natural  movement 
of  a body  which,  separated  from  the  earth  to  which  it  be- 
longed, was  now  going  to  find  its  place  again.  They  noted, 
then,  the  final  term  or  culminating  point  {ziXos,  oKfurj)  and 
set  it  up  as  the  essential  moment:  this  moment,  that 
language  has  retained  in  order  to  express  the  whole  of 
the  fact,  sufficed  also  for  science  to  characterize  it.  In  the 
physics  of  Aristotle,  it  is  by  the  concepts  ‘^high’’  and  “low,’^ 
spontaneous  displacement  and  forced  displacement,  own 
place  and  strange  place,  that  the  movement  of  a body  shot 
into  space  or  falling  freely  is  defined.  But  Galileo  thought 
there  was  no  essential  moment,  no  privileged  instant.  To 
study  the  falling  body  is  to  consider  it  at  it  matters  not 
what  moment  in  its  course.  The  true  science  of  gravity 
is  that  which  will  determine,  for  any  moment  of  time  what- 
ever, the  position  of  the  body  in  space.  For  this,  indeed, 
signs  far  more  precise  than  those  of  language  are  required. 

We  may  say,  then,  that  our  physics  differs  from  that  of 
the  ancients  chiefly  in  the  indefinite  breaking  up  of  time. 
For  the  ancients,  time  comprises  as  many  undivided  periods 
as  our  natural  perception  and  our  language  cut  out  in  it 
successive  facts,  each  presenting  a kind  of  individuality. 
For  that  reason,  each  of  these  facts  admits,  in  their  view, 
of  only  a total  definition  or  description.  If,  in  describing 
it,  we  are  led  to  distinguish  phases  in  it,  we  have  several 
facts  instead  of  a single  one,  several  undivided  periods  in- 
stead of  a single  period;  but  time  is  always  supposed  to  be 
divided  into  determinate  periods,  and  the  mode  of  division 
to  be  forced  on  the  mind  by  apparent  crises  of  the  real, 


332 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


ICHAP. 


comparable  to  that  of  puberty,  by  the  apparent  release  of  a 
new  form. — For  a Kepler  or  a Galileo,  on  the  contrary, 
time  is  not  divided  objectively  in  one  way  or  another  by 
the  matter  that  fills  it.  It  has  no  natural  articulations. 
We  can,  we  ought  to,  divide  it  as  we  please.  All  moments 
count.  None  of  them  has  the  right  to  set  itself  up  as  a 
moment  that  represents  or  dominates  the  others.  And, 
consequently,  we  know  a change  only  when  we  are  able 
to  determine  what  it  is  about  at  any  one  of  its  moments. 

The  difference  is  profound.  In  fact,  in  a certain  aspect 
it  is  radical.  But,  from  the  point  of  view  from  which  we 
are  regarding  it,  it  is  a difference  of  degree  rather  than  of 
kind.  The  human  mind  has  passed  from  the  first  kind  of 
knowledge  to  the  second  through  gradual  perfecting,  simply 
by  seeking  a higher  precision.  There  is  the  same  relation 
between  these  two  sciences  as  between  the  noting  of  the 
phases  of  a movement  by  the  eye  and  the  much  more 
complete  recording  of  these  phases  by  instantaneous  pho- 
tography. It  is  the  same  cinematographical  mechanism  in 
both  cases,  but  it  reaches  a precision  in  the  second  that  it 
cannot  have  in  the  first.  Of  the  gallop  of  a horse  our  eye 
perceives  chiefly  a characteristic,  essential  or  rather  sche- 
matic attitude,  a form  that  appears  to  radiate  over  a whole 
period  and  so  fill  up  a time  of  gallop.  It  is  this  attitude 
that  sculpture  has  fixed  on  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon. 
But  instantaneous  photography  isolates  any  moment;  it 
puts  them  all  in  the  same  rank,  and  thus  the  gallop  of  a 
horse  spreads  out  for  it  into  as  many  successive  attitudes 
as  it  wishes,  instead  of  massing  itself  into  a single  attitude, 
which  is  supposed  to  flash  out  in  a privileged  moment  and 
to  illuminate  a whole  period. 

From  this  original  difference  flow  all  the  others.  A 
science  that  considers,  one  after  the  other,  undivided  periods 
of  duration,  sees  nothing  but  phases  succeeding  phases. 


IV.l 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


333 


forms  replacing  forms;  it  is  content  with  a qualitative  de- 
scription of  objects,  which  it  likens  to  organized  beings. 
But  when  we  seek  to  know  what  happens  within  one  of 
these  periods,  at  any  moment  of  time,  we  are  aiming  at 
something  entirely  different.  The  changes  which  are  pro- 
duced from  one  moment  to  another  are  no  longer,  by  the 
hypothesis,  changes  of  quality;  they  are  quantitative  vari- 
ations, it  may  be  of  the  phenomenon  itself,  it  may  be  of  its 
elementary  parts.  We  were  right  then  to  say  that  modern 
science  is  distinguishable  from  the  ancient  in  that  it  applies 
to  magnitudes  and  proposes  first  and  foremost  to  measure 
them.  The  ancients  did  indeed  try  experiments,  and  on 
the  other  hand  Kepler  tried  no  experiment,  in  the  proper 
sense  of  the  word,  in  order  to  discover  a law  which  is  the 
very  type  of  scientific  knowledge  as  we  understand  it. 
AVhat  distinguishes  modern  science  is  not  that  it  is  experi- 
mental, but  that  it  experiments  and,  more  generally,  works 
only  with  a view  to  measure. 

For  that  reason  it  is  right,  again,  to  say  that  ancient 
science  applied  to  concepts,  while  modern  science  seeks 
laws — constant  relations  between  variable  magnitudes. 
The  concept  of  circularity  was  sufficient  to  Aristotle  to 
define  the  movement  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  But,  even 
with  the  more  accurate  concept  of  elliptical  form,  Kepler 
did  not  think  he  had  accounted  for  the  movement  of  planets. 
He  had  to  get  a law,  that  is  to  say,  a constant  relation  be- 
tween the  quantitative  variations  of  two  or  several  elements 
of  the  planetary  movement. 

Yet  these  are  only  consequences — differences  that  follow 
from  the  fundamental  difference.  It  did  happen  to  the 
ancients  accidentally  to  experiment  with  a view  to  measur- 
ing, as  also  to  discover  a law  expressing  a constant  relation 
between  magnitudes.  The  principle  of  Archimedes  is  a 
tme  experimental  law.  It  takes  into  account  three  variable 


334 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


ICHAP. 


magnitudes : the  volume  of  a body,  the  density  of  the  liquid 
in  which  the  body  is  immersed,  the  vertical  pressure  that 
is  being  exerted.  And  it  states  indeed  that  one  of  these 
three  terms  is  a function  of  the  other  two. 

The  essential,  original  difference  must  therefore  be  sought 
elsewhere.  It  is  the  same  that  we  noticed  first.  The 
science  of  the  ancients  is  static.  Either  it  considers  in 
block  the  change  that  it  studies,  or,  if  it  divides  the  change 
intp  periods,  it  makes  of  each  of  these  periods  a block  in  its 
turn:  which  amounts  to  saying  that  it  takes  no  account 
of  time.  But  modern  science  has  been  built  up  around 
the  discoveries  of  Galileo  and  of  Kepler,  which  immediately 
furnished  it  with  a model.  Now,  what  do  the  laws  of 
Kepler  say?  They  lay  down  a relation  between  the  areas 
described  by  the  heliocentric  radius- vector  of  a planet  and 
the  time  employed  in  describing  them,  a relation  between 
the  longer  axis  of  the  orbit  and  the  time  taken  up  by  the 
course.  And  what  was  the  principle  discovered  by  Galileo? 
A law  which  connected  the  space  traversed  by  a falling 
body  with  the  time  occupied  by  the  fall.  Furthemore, 
in  what  did  the  first  of  the  great  transformations  of  geometry 
in  modern  times  consist,  if  not  in  introducing — in  a veiled 
form,  it  is  true — time  and  movement  even  in  the  considera- 
tion of  figures?  For  the  ancients,  geometry  was  a purely 
static  science.  Figures  were  given  to  it  at  once,  completely 
finished,  like  the  Platonic  Ideas.  But  the  essence  of  the 
Cartesian  geometry  (although  Descartes  did  not  give  it 
this  form)  was  to  regard  every  plane  curve  as  described 
by  the  movement  of  a point  on  a movable  straight  line 
which  is  displaced,  parallel  to  itself,  along  the  axis  of  the 
abscissae — the  displacement  of  the  movable  straight  line 
being  supposed  to  be  unifoiTn  and  the  abscissa  thus  be- 
coming representative  of  the  time.  The  curve  is  then 
defined  if  we  can  state  the  relation  connecting  the  space 


IV.] 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


335 


traversed  on  the  movable  straight  line  to  the  time  employed 
in  traversing  it,  that  is,  if  we  are  able  to  indicate  the  po- 
sition of  the  movable  point,  on  the  straight  line  which  it 
traverses,  at  any  moment  whatever  of  its  course.  This 
relation  is  just  wRat  we  call  the  equation  of  the  curve.  To 
substitute  an  equation  for  a figure  consists,  therefore,  in 
seeing  the  actual  position  of  the  moving  points  in  the  tra- 
cing of  the  curve  at  any  moment  whatever,  instead  of  re- 
garding this  tracing  all  at  once,  gathered  up  in  the  unique 
moment  when  the  curve  has  reached  its  finished  state. 

Such,  then,  was  the  directing  idea  of  the  reform  by  which 
both  the  science  of  nature  and  mathematics,  which  serves 
as  its  instrument,  were  renewed.  Modern  science  is  the 
daughter  of  astronomy;  it  has  come  down  from  heaven 
to  earth  along  the  inclined  plane  of  Galileo,  for  it  is  through 
Galileo  that  Newton  and  his  successors  are  connected  wdth 
Kepler.  Now,  how  did  the  astronomical  problem  present 
itself  to  Kepler?  The  question  w^as,  knowing  the  respective 
positions  of  the  planets  at  a given  moment,  how  to  calculate 
their  positions  at  any  other  moment.  So  the  same  question 
presented  itself,  henceforth,  for  every  material  system. 
Each  material  point  became  a rudimentary  planet,  and  the 
main  question,  the  ideal  problem  whose  solution  would 
yield  the  key  to  all  the  others  was,  the  positions  of  these 
elements  at  a particular  moment  being  given,  how  to  de- 
termine their  relative  positions  at  any  moment.  No  doubt 
the  problem  cannot  be  put  in  these  precise  terms  except 
in  very  simple  cases,  for  a schematized  reality;  for  w^e 
never  know  the  respective  positions  of  the  real  elements 
of  matter,  supposing  there  are  real  elements;  and,  even  if 
we  knew  them  at  a given  moment,  the  calculation  of  their 
positions  at  another  moment  would  generally  require  a 
mathematical  effort  surpassing  human  powers.  But  it  is 
enough  for  us  to  know  that  these  elements  might  be  known, 


33G 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


that  their  present  positions  might  be  noted,  and  that  a 
superhuman  intellect  might,  by  submitting  these  data  to 
mathematical  operations,  determine  the  positions  of  the 
elements  at  any  other  moment  of  time.  This  conviction 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  questions  we  put  to  ourselves  on 
the  subject  of  nature,  and  of  the  methods  we  employ  to 
solve  them.  That  is  why  every  law  in  static  form  seems 
to  us  as  a provisional  instalment  or  as  a particular  view 
of  a dynamic  law  which  alone  would  give  us  whole  and 
definitive  knowledge. 

Let  us  conclude,  then,  that  our  science  is  not  only  dis- 
tinguished from  ancient  science  in  this,  that  it  seeks  laws, 
nor  even  in  this,  that  its  laws  set  forth  relations  between 
magnitudes:  we  must  add  that  the  magnitude  to  which 
we  wish  to  be  able  to  relate  all  others  is  time,  and  that 
modern  science  must  he  defined  'pre-eminently  by  its  aspiration 
to  take  time  as  an  independent  variable.  But  with  what 
time  has  it  to  do? 

We  have  said  before,  and  we  cannot  repeat  too  often, 
that  the  science  of  matter  proceeds  like  ordinary  know- 
ledge. It  perfects  this  knowledge,  increases  its  precision 
and  its  scope,  but  it  works  in  the  same  direction  and  puts 
the  same  mechanism  into  play.  If,  therefore,  ordinary 
knowledge,  by  reason  of  the  cinematographical  mechanism 
to  which  it  is  subjected,  forbears  to  follow  becoming  in  so 
far  as  becoming  is  moving,  the  science  of  matter  renounces 
it  equally.  No  doubt,  it  distinguishes  as  great  a number 
of  moments  as  we  wish  in  the  interval  of  time  it  considers. 
However  small  the  intervals  may  be  at  which  it  stops,  it 
authorizes  us  to  divide  them  again  if  necessary.  In  con- 
trast with  ancient  science,  which  stopped  at  certain  so- 
called  essential  moments,  it  is  occupied  indifferently  with 
any  moment  whatever.  But  it  always  considers  moments, 
always  virtual  stopping-places,  always,  in  short,  immobili- 


IV.l 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


337 


ties.  Which  amounts  to  saying  that  real  time,  regarded  as 
a flux,  or,  in  other  words,  as  the  very  mobility  of  being, 
escapes  the  hold  of  scientific  knowledge.  We  have  already 
* tried  to  establish  this  point  in  a former  work.  We  alluded  to 
it  again  in  the  first  chapter  of  this  book.  But  it  is  necessary 
to  revert  to  it  once  more,  in  order  to  clear  up  misunder- 
standings. 

When  positive  science  speaks  of  time,  what  it  refers  to 
is  the  movement  of  a certain  mobile  T on  its  trajectory. 
This  movement  has  been  chosen  by  it  as  representative 
of  time,  and  it  is,  by  definition,  uniform.  Let  us  call  T^, 
T2,  T3,  . . . etc.,  points  which  divide  the  trajectory 
of  the  mobile  into  equal  parts  from  its  origin  T^.  We  shall 
say  that  1,  2,  3,  . . . units  of  time  have  flowed  past, 
when  the  mobile  is  at  the  points  Tj,  T2,  T3,  . . . of  the 
line  it  traverses.  Accordingly,  to  consider  the  state  of  the 
universe  at  the  end  of  a certain  time  t,  is  to  examine  where 
it  will  be  when  T is  at  the  point  of  its  course.  But  of  the 
flux  itself  of  time,  still  less  of  its  effect  on  consciousness, 
there  is  here  no  question;  for  there  enter  into  the  calculation 
only  the  points  Tu  T2,  T3,  . . . taken  on  the  flux,  never 
the  flux  itself.  We  may  narrow  the  time  considered  as 
much  as  we  will,  that  is,  break  up  at  will  the  interval  be- 
tween tw^o  consecutive  divisions  and  but  it  is 

always  with  points,  and  with  points  only,  that  we  are  deal- 
ing. What  we  retain  of  the  movement  of  the  mobile  T 
are  positions  taken  on  its  trajectory.  What  we  retain  of 
all  the  other  points  of  the  universe  are  their  positions  on 
their  respective  trajectories.  To  each  virtual  stop  of  the 
moving  body  T at  the  points  of  division  Ti,  T2,  T3,  . . . 
we  make  correspond  a virtual  stop  of  all  the  other  mobiles 
at  the  points  where  they  are  passing.  And  when  we  say 
that  a movement  or  any  other  change  has  occupied  a time 
t,  we  mean  by  it  that  we  have  noted  a number  t of  corre- 


338 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


spondences  of  this  kind.  We  have  therefore  counted 
simultaneities;  we  have  not  concerned  ourselves  with  the 
flux  that  goes  from  one  to  another.  The  proof  of  this  is 
that  I can,  at  discretion,  vary  the  rapidity  of  the  flux  of 
the  universe  in  regard  to  a consciousness  that  is  independent 
of  it  and  that  would  perceive  the  variation  by  the  quite 
qualitative  feeling  that  it  would  have  of  it:  whatever  the 
variation  had  been,  since  the  movement  of  T would  partici- 
pate in  this  variation,  I should  have  nothing  to  change  in 
my  equations  nor  in  the  numbers  that  figure  in  them. 

Let  us  go  further.  Suppose  that  the  rapidity  of  the 
flux  becomes  infinite.  Imagine,  as  we  said  in  the  first  pages 
of  this  book,  that  the  trajectory  of  the  mobile  T is  given 
at  once,  and  that  the  whole  history,  past,  present  and  future, 
of  the  material  universe  is  spread  out  instantaneously 
in  space.  The  same  mathematical  correspondences  will 
subsist  between  the  moments  of  the  history  of  the  world 
unfolded  like  a fan,  so  to  speak,  and  the  divisions  Tj,  T2,  Tg, 
...  of  the  line  which  wdll  be  called,  by  definition,  ‘‘the 
course  of  time.”  In  the  eyes  of  science  nothing  will  have 
changed.  But  if,  time  thus  spreading  itself  out  in  space 
and  succession  becoming  juxtaposition,  science  has  noth- 
ing to  change  in  what  it  tells  us,  we  must  conclude  that, 
in  what  it  tells  us,  it  takes  account  neither  of  succession 
in  what  of  it  is  specific  nor  of  time  in  what  there  is  in  it  that 
is  fluent.  It  has  no  sign  to  express  what  strikes  our  con- 
sciousness in  succession  and  duration.  It  no  more  applies 
to  becoming,  so  far  as  that  is  moving,  than  the  bridges 
thrown  here  and  there  across  the  stream  follow  the  water 
that  flows  under  their  arches. 

Yet  succession  exists;  I am  conscious  of  it;  it  is  a fact. 
When  a physical  process  is  going  on  before  my  eyes,  my 
perception  and  my  inclination  have  nothing  to  do  with 
accelerating  or  retarding  it.  What  is  important  to  the 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


339 


IV.l 

physicist  is  the  number  of  units  of  duration  the  process 
fills;  he  does  not  concern  himself  about  the  units  themselves 
and  that  is  why  the  successive  states  of  the  world  might 
be  spread  out  all  at  once  in  space  without  his  having  to 
change  anything  in  his  science  or  to  cease  talking  about 
time.  But  for  us,  conscious  beings,  it  is  the  units  that 
matter,  for  we  do  not  count  extremities  of  intervals,  we 
feel  and  live  the  intervals  themselves.  Now,  we  are  con- 
scious of  these  intervals  as  of  definite  intervals.  Let  me 
come  back  again  to  the  sugar  in  my  glass  of  water why 
must  I wait  for  it  to  melt?  While  the  duration  of  the 
phenomenon  is  relative  for  the  physicist,  since  it  is  reduced 
to  a certain  number  of  units  of  time  and  the  units  them- 
selves are  indifferent,  this  duration  is  an  absolute  for  my 
consciousness,  for  it  coincides  with  a certain  degree  of 
impatience  which  is  rigorously  determined.  Whence 
comes  this  determination?  What  is  it  that  obliges  me  to 
wait,  and  to  wait  for  a certain  length  of  psychical  duration 
which  is  forced  upon  me,  over  which  I have  no  power? 
If  succession,  in  so  far  as  distinct  from  mere  juxtaposition, 
has  no  real  efficacy,  if  time  is  not  a kind  of  force,  why  does 
the  universe  unfold  its  successive  states  with  a velocity 
which,  in  regard  to  my  consciousness,  is  a veritable  abso- 
lute? Why  with  this  particular  velocity  rather  than  any 
other?  Why  not  with  an  infinite  velocity?  Why,  in  other 
words,  is  not  e /erything  given  at  once,  as  on  the  film  of  the 
cinematograph?  The  more  I consider  this  point,  the  more 
it  seems  to  me  that,  if  the  future  is  bound  to  succeed  the 
present  instead  of  being  given  alongside  of  it,  it  is  because 
the  future  is  not  altogether  determined  at  the  present 
moment,  and  that  if  the  time  taken  up  by  this  succession 
is  something  other  than  a number,  if  it  has  for  the  con- 
sciousness that  is  installed  in  it  absolute  value  and  reality, 

1 See  page  10. 


340 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


it  is  because  there  is  unceasingly  being  created  in  it,  not 
indeed  in  any  such  artificially  isolated  system  as  a glass 
of  sugared  water,  but  in  the  concrete  whole  of  which  every 
such  system  forms  part,  something  unforeseeable  and  new. 
This  duration  may  not  be  the  fact  of  matter  itself,  but  that 
of  the  life  which  reascends  the  course  of  matter;  the  two. 
movements  are  none  the  less  mutually  dependent  upon  each 
other.  The  duration  of  the  universe  must  therefore  he  one 
with, the  latitude  of  creation  which  can  find  'place  in  it. 

When  a child  plays  at  reconstructing  a picture  by  putting 
together  the  separate  pieces  in  a puzzle  game,  the  more  he 
practices,  the  more  and  more  quickly  he  succeeds.  The 
reconstruction  was,  moreover,  instantaneous,  the  child 
found  it  ready-made,  when  he  opened  the  box  on  leaving 
the  shop.  The  operation,  therefore,  does  not  require  a 
definite  time,  and  indeed,  theoretically,  it  does  not  require 
any  time.  That  is  because  the  result  is  given.  It  is  be- 
cause the  picture  is  already  created,  and  because  to  obtain 
it  requires  only  a work  of  recomposing  and  rearranging — 
a work  that  can  be  supposed  going  faster  and  faster,  and 
even  infinitely  fast,  up  to  the  point  of  being  instantaneous. 
But,  to  the  artist  who  creates  a picture  by  drawing  it  from 
the  depths  of  his  soul,  time  is  no  longer  an  accessory;  it  is 
not  an  interval  that  may  be  lengthened  or  shortened  with- 
out the  content  being  altered.  The  duration  of  his  work 
is  part  and  parcel  of  his  work.  To  contract  or  to  dilate 
it  would  be  to  modify  both  the  psychical  evolution  that 
fills  it  and  the  invention  which  is  its  goal.  The  time  taken 
up  by  the  invention,  is  one  with  the  invention  itself.  It 
is  the  progress  of  a thought  which  is  changing  in  the  degree 
and  measure  that  it  is  taking  form.  It  is  a vital  process, 
something  like  the  ripening  of  an  idea. 

The  painter  is  before  his  canvas,  the  colors  are  on  the 
palette,  the  mod^l  is  sitting — all  this  we  see,  and  also  we 


IV.l 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


341 


know  the  painter’s  style:  do  we  foresee  what  will  appear 
on  the  canvas?  We  possess  the  elements  of  the  problem; 
we  know  in  an  abstract  way,  how  it  will  be  solved,  for  the 
portrait  will  surely  resemble  the  model  and  will  surely 
resemble  dsk)  the  artist;  but  the  concrete  solution  brings 
with  it  th-tit  unforeseeable  nothing  which  is  everything 
in  a work  of  art.  And  it  is  this  nothing  that  takes  time. 
Nought  as  matter,  it  creates  itself  as  form.  The  sprouting 
and  flowering  of  this  form  are  stretched  out  on  an  un- 
shrinkable duration,  which  is  one  with  their  essence.  So 
of  the  works  of  nature.  Their  novelty  arises  from  an  inter- 
nal impetus  v/hich  is  progress  or  succession,  which  confers 
on  succession  a peculiar  virtue  or  which  owes  to  succes- 
sion the  whole  of  its  virtue — which,  at  any  rate,  makes 
succession,  or  continuity  of  interpenetration  in  time,  irre- 
ducible to  a mere  instantaneous  juxtaposition  in  space. 
This  is  why  the  idea  of  reading  in  a present  state  of  the 
material  universe  the  future  of  living  forms,  and  of  unfold- 
ing now  their  history  yet  to  come,  involves  a veritable 
absurdity.  But  this  absurdity  is  difficult  to  bring  out, 
because  our  memory  is  accustomed  to  place  alongside  of 
each  other,  in  an  ideal  space,  the  terms  it  perceives  in  turn, 
because  it  always  represents  past  succession  in  the  form  of 
juxtaposition.  It  is  able  to  do  so,  indeed,  just  because  the 
past  belongs  to  that  which  is  already  invented,  to  the  dead, 
and  no  longer  to  creation  and  to  life.  Then,  as  the  succes- 
sion to  come  will  end  by  being  a succession  past,  we  per- 
suade ourselves  that  the  duration  to  come  admits  of  the 
same  treatment  as  past  duration,  that  it  is,  even  now,  un- 
rollable,  that  the  future  is  there,  rolled  up,  already  painted 
on  the  canvas.  An  illusion,  no  doubt,  but  an  illusion  that 
is  natural,  ineradicable,  and  that  will  last  as  long  as  the 
human  mind! 

Time  is  invention  or  it  is  nothing  at  all.  But  of  time- 


342 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


invencion  physics  can  take  no  accouiiu,  restricted  as  it  is 
to  the  cinematographical  method.  It  is  limited  to  count- 
ing simultaneities  between  the  events  that  make  up  this 
time  and  the  positions  of  the  mobile  T on  its  trajectory. 
It  detaches  these  events  from  the  whole,  whbia  at  every 
moment  puts  on  a new  form  and  which  comirTjnicates  to 
them  something  of  its  novelty.  It  considers  them  in  the 
abstract,  such  as  they  would  be  outside  of  the  living  whole, 
that  is  to  say,  in  a time  unrolled  in  space.  It  retains  only 
the  events  or  systems  of  events  that  can  be  thus  isolated 
without  being  made  to  undergo  too  profound  a deformation, 
because  only  these  lend  themselves  to  the  application  of 
its  method.  Our  physics  dates  from  the  day  when  it  w^as 
known  how  to  isolate  such  systems.  To  sum  up,  while 
modern  physics  is  distinguished  from  ancient  physics  by  the 
fact  that  it  considers  any  moment  of  time  whatever,  it  rests 
altogether  on  a substitution  of  time-length  for  time-invention. 

It  seems  then  that,  parallel  to  this  physics,  a second 
kind  of  knowledge  ought  to  have  grown  up,  which  could 
have  retained  what  physics  allow^ed  to  escape.  On  the 
flux  itself  of  duration  science  neither  wmuld  nor  could  lay 
hold,  bound  as  it  was  to  the  cinematographical  method. 
This  second  kind  of  knowledge  would  have  set  the  cinemato- 
graphical method  aside.  It  wmuld  have  called  upon  the 
mind  to  renounce  its  most  cherished  habits.  It  is  within 
becoming  that  it  would  have  transported  us  by  an  effort  of 
sympathy.  We  should  no  longer  be  asking  where  a mov- 
ing body  will  be,  what  shape  a system  will  take,  through 
what  state  a change  will  pass  at  a given  moment : the  mo- 
ments of  time,  wRich  are  only  arrests  of  our  attention, 
would  no  longer  exist ; it  is  the  flow^  of  time,  it  is  the  very 
flux  of  the  real  that  w^e  should  be  trying  to  follow.  The 
first  kind  of  knowiedge  has  the  advantage  of  enabling  us  to 
foresee  the  future  and  of  making  us  in  some  measure  masters 


IV.l 


MODERN  SCIENCE 


343 


of  events;  in  return,  it  retains  of  the  moving  reality  only 
eventual  immobilities,  that  is  to  say,  views  taken  of  it  by 
our  mind.  It  symbolizes  the  real  and  transposes  it  into 
the  human  rather  than  expresses  it.  The  other  knowledge, 
if  it  is  possible,  is  practically  useless,  it  will  not  extend 
our  empire  over  nature,  it  will  even  go  against  certain 
natural  aspirations  of  the  intellect ; but,  if  it  succeeds,  it  is 
reality  itself  that  it  will  hold  in  a firm  and  final  embrace. 
Not  only  may  we  thus  complete  the  intellect  and  its  know- 
ledge of  matter  by  accustoming  it  to  install  itself  within 
the  moving,  but  by  developing  also  another  faculty,  com- 
plementary to  the  intellect,  w^e  may  open  a perspective  on 
the  other  half  of  the  real.  For,  as  soon  as  we  are  con- 
fronted with  true  duration,  we  see  that  it  means  creation, 
and  that  if  that  which  is  being  unmade  endures,  it  can  only 
be  because  it  is  inseparably  bound  to  what  is  making  itself. 
Thus  will  appear  the  necessity  of  a continual  growth  of  the 
universe,  I should  say  of  a life  of  the  real.  And  thus  will 
be  seen  in  a new  light  the  life  which  we  find  on  the  surface 
of  our  planet,  a life  directed  the  same  way  as  that  of  the 
universe,  and  inverse  of  materiality.  To  intellect,  in  short, 
there  will  be  added  intuition. 

The  more  we  reflect  on  it,  the  more  we  shall  find  that  this 
conception  of  metaphysics  is  that  which  modern  science 
suggests. 

For  the  ancients,  indeed,  time  is  theoretically  negligible, 
because  the  duration  of  a thing  only  manifests  the  degra- 
dation of  its  essence:  it  is  with  this  motionless  essence 
that  science  has  to  deal.  Change  being  only  the  effort  of  a 
form  toward  its  own  realization,  the  realization  is  all  that 
it  concerns  us  to  know.  No  doubt  the  realization  is  never 
complete:  it  is  this  that  ancient  philosophy  expresses  by 
saying  that  we  do  not  perceive  form  without  matter.  But 
if  we  consider  the  changing  object  at  a certain  essential 


344 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


moment,  at  its  apogee,  we  may  say  that  there  it  just  touches 
its  intelligible  form.  This  intelligible  form,  this  ideal  and, 
so  to  speak,  limiting  form,  our  science  seizes  upon.  And 
possessing  in  this  the  gold-piece,  it  holds  eminently  the 
small  money  which  we  call  becoming  or  change.  This 
change  is  less  than  being.  The  knowledge  that  would  take 
it  for  object,  supposing  such  knowledge  were  possible, 
would  be  less  than  science. 

But,  for  a science  that  places  all  the  moments  of  time 
in  the  same  rank,  that  admits  no  essential  moment,  no 
culminating  point,  no  apogee,  change  is  no  longer  a dimin- 
ution of  essence,  duration  is  not  a dilution  of  eternity.  The 
flux  of  time  is  the  reality  itself,  and  the  things  which  we 
study  are  the  things  which  flow.  It  is  true  that  of  this 
flowing  reality  we  are  limited  to  taking  instantaneous 
views.  But,  just  because  of  this,  scientific  knowledge  must 
appeal  to  another  knowledge  to  complete  it.  While  the 
ancient  conception  of  scientific  knowledge  ended  in  making 
time  a degradation,  and  change  the  diminution  of  a form 
given  from  all  eternity — on  the  contrary,  by  following  the 
new  conception  to  the  end,  we  should  come  to  see  in  time 
a progressive  growth  of  the  absolute,  and  in  the  evolution 
of  things  a continual  invention  of  forms  ever  new. 

It  is  true  that  it  would  be  to  break  with  the  metaphysics 
of  the  ancients.  They  saw  only  one  way  of  knowing  defi- 
nitely. Their  science  consisted  in  a scattered  and  frag- 
mentary metaphysics,  their  metaphysics  in  a concentrated 
and  systematic  science.  Their  science  and  metaphysics 
were,  at  most,  two  species  of  one  and  the  same  genus.  In 
our  hypothesis,  on  the  contrary,  science  and  metaphysics 
are  two  opposed  although  complementary  ways  of  knowing, 
the  first  retaining  only  moments,  that  is  to  say,  that  which 
does  not  endure,  the  second  bearing  on  duration  itself. 
Now,  it  was  natural  to  hesitate  between  so  novel  a con- 


IV.l 


DESCARTES 


345 


ception  of  metaphysics  and  the  traditional  conception. 
The  temptation  must  have  been  strong  to  repeat  with  the 
new  science  what  had  been  tried  on  the  old,  to  suppose 
our  scientific  knowledge  of  nature  completed  at  once,  to 
unify  it  entirely,  and  to  give  to  this  unification,  as  the 
Greeks  had  already  done,  the  name  of  metaphysics.  So, 
beside  the  new  vray  that  philosophy  might  have  prepared, 
the  old  remained  open,  that  indeed  which  physics  trod. 
And,  as  physics  retained  of  time  only  what  could  as  well  be 
spread  out  all  at  once  in  space,  the  metaphysics  that  chose 
the  same  direction  had  necessarily  to  proceed  as  if  time 
created  and  annihilated  nothing,  as  if  duration  had  no 
efficacy.  Bound,  like  the  physics  of  the  moderns  and  the 
metaphysics  of  the  ancients,  to  the  cinematographical 
method,  it  ended  with  the  conclusion,  implicitly  admitted 
at  the  start  and  immanent  in  the  method  itself:  All  is 
given. 

That  metaphysics  hesitated  at  first  between  the  two  paths 
seems  to  us  unquestionable.  The  indecision  is  visible  in 
Cartesianism.  On  the  one  hand,  Descartes  affirms  uni- 
versal mechanism:  from  this  point  of  view  movement 
would  be  relative,'  and,  as  time  has  just  as  much  reality 
as  movement,  it  would  follow  that  past,  present  and  future 
are  given  from  all  eternity.  But,  on  the  other  hand  (and 
that  is  why  the  philosopher  has  not  gone  to  these  extreme 
consequences),  Descartes  believes  in  the  free  will  of  man. 
He  superposes  on  the  determinism  of  physical  phenomena 
the  indeterminism  of  human  actions,  and,  consequently,  on 
time-length  a time  in  which  there  is  invention,  creation, 
true  succession.  This  duration  he  supports  on  a God 
who  is  unceasingly  renewing  the  creative  act,  and  who, 
being  thus  tangent  to  time  and  becoming,  sustains  them, 
communicates  to  them  necessarily  something  of  his  absolute 
' Descartes,  Prindpes,  ii.  § 29. 


346 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP 


reality.  When  he  places  himself  at  this  second  point  of 
view,  Descartes  speaks  of  movement,  even  spatial,  as  of  an 
absolute.  ^ 

He  therefore  entered  both  roads  one  after  the  other,  hav- 
ing resolved  to  follow  neither  of  them  to  the  end.  The 
first  would  have  led  him  to  the  denial  of  free  will  in  man 
and  of  real  will  in  God.  It  was  the  suppression  of  all 
efficient  duration,  the  likening  of  the  universe  to  a thing 
givm,  which  a superhuman  intelligence  would  embrace 
at  once  in  a moment  or  in  eternity.  In  following  the  second, 
on  the  contrary,  he  would  have  been  led  to  all  the  conse- 
quences which  the  intuition  of  true  duration  implies.  Cre- 
ation would  have  appeared  not  simply  as  continued,  but 
also  as  continuous.  The  universe,  regarded  as  a whole, 
would  really  evolve.  The  future  would  no  longer  be  deter- 
minable by  the  present;  at  most  we  might  say  that,  once 
realized,  it  can  be  found  again  in  its  antecedents,  as  the 
sounds  of  a new  language  can  be  expressed  with  the  letters 
of  an  old  alphabet  if  we  agree  to  enlarge  the  value  of  the 
letters  and  to  attribute  to  them,  retro-actively,  sounds 
which  no  combination  of  the  old  sounds  could  have  pro- 
duced beforehand.  Finally,  the  mechanistic  explanation 
might  have  remained  universal  in  this,  that  it  can  indeed 
be  extended  to  as  many  systems  as  we  choose  to  cut  out 
in  the  continuity  of  the  universe;  but  mechanism  would 
then  have  become  a method  rather  than  a doctrine.  It 
would  have  expressed  the  fact  that  science  must  proceed 
after  the  cinematographical  manner,  that  the  function  of 
science  is  to  scan  the  rhythm  of  the  flow  of  things  and  not 
to  fit  itself  into  that  flow. — Such  were  the  two  opposite  con- 
ceptions of  metaphysics  which  were  offered  to  philosophy. 

It  chose  the  first.  The  reason  of  this  choice  is  undoubt- 
edly the  mind’s  tendency  to  follow  the  cinematographical 

‘ Descartes,  Principes,  ii.  §§  36  fif. 


IV.l 


SPINOZA  AND  LEIBNIZ 


347 


method,  a method  so  natural  to  our  intellect,  and  so  well 
adjusted  also  to  the  requirements  of  our  science,  that  we 
must  feel  doubly  sure  of  its  speculative  impotence  to  re- 
nounce it  in  metaphysics.  But  ancient  philosophy  also 
influenced  the  choice.  Artists  for  ever  admirable,  the 
Greeks  created  a type  of  suprasensible  truth,  as  of  sensible 
beauty,  whose  attraction  is  hard  to  resist.  As  soon  as  we 
incline  to  make  metaphysics  a systematization  of  science, 
we  glide  in  the  direction  of  Plato  and  of  Aristotle.  And, 
once  in  the  zone  of  attraction  in  which  the  Greek  philoso- 
phers moved,  we  are  drawn  along  in  their  orbit. 

Such  was  the  case  with  Leibniz,  as  also  with  Spinoza. 
We  are  not  blind  to  the  treasures  of  originality  their  doc- 
trines contain.  Spinoza  and  Leibniz  have  poured  into 
them  the  whole  content  of  their  souls,  rich  with  the  in- 
ventions of  their  genius  and  the  acquisitions  of  modern 
thought.  And  there  are  in  each  of  them,  especially  in 
Spinoza,  flashes  of  intuition  that  break  through  the  system. 
But  if  we  leave  out  of  the  two  doctrines  what  breathes  life 
into  them,  if  we  retain  the  skeleton  only,  we  have  before 
us  the  very  picture  of  Platonism  and  Aristotelianism  seen 
through  Cartesian  mechanism.  They  present  to  us  a 
systematization  of  the  new  physics,  constructed  on  the 
model  of  the  ancient  metaphysics. 

\Vhat,  indeed,  could  the  unification  of  physics  be?  The 
inspiring  idea  of  that  science  was  to  isolate,  within  the  uni- 
verse, systems  of  material  points  such  that,  the  position 
of  each  of  these  points  being  known  at  a given  moment, 
we  could  then  calculate  it  for  any  moment  whatever.  As, 
moreover,  the  systems  thus  defined  were  the  only  ones  on 
which  the  new  science  had  hold,  and  as  it  could  not  be 
known  beforehand  whether  a system  satisfied  or  did  not 
satisfy  the  desired  condition,  it  was  useful  to  proceed  always 
and  everywhere  as  if  the  condition  was  realized.  There 


348 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


was  in  this  a methodological  rule,  a very  natural  rule — 
so  natural,  indeed,  that  it  was  not  even  necessary  to  formu- 
late it.  For  simple  common  sense  tells  us  that  when  we 
are  possessed  of  an  effective  instrument  of  research,  and 
are  ignorant  of  the  limits  of  its  applicability,  w^e  should 
act  as  if  its  applicability  were  unlimited;  there  will  always 
be  time  to  abate  it.  But  the  temptation  must  have  been 
great  for  the  philosopher  to  hypostatize  this  hope,  or  rather 
this  impetus,  of  the  new  science,  and  to  convert  a general 
rule  of  method  into  a fundamental  law  of  things.  So  he 
transported  himself  at  once  to  the  limit;  he  supposed  physics 
to  have  become  complete  and  to  embrace  the  whole  of  the 
sensible  world.  The  universe  became  a S3^stem  of  points, 
the  position  of  which  w^as  rigorousty  determined  at  each 
instant  by  relation  to  the  preceding  instant  and  theoretically 
calculable  for  an}^  moment  whatever.  The  result,  in  short, 
was  universal  mechanism.  But  it  was  not  enough  to 
formulate  this  mechanism;  what  was  required  w^as  to 
found  it,  to  give  the  reason  for  it  and  prove  its  necessity. 
And  the  essential  affirmation  of  mechanism  being  that  of  a 
reciprocal  mathematical  dependence  of  all  the  points  of 
the  universe,  as  also  of  all  the  moments  of  the  universe, 
the  reason  of  mechanism  had  to  be  discovered  in  the  unity 
of  a principle  into  which  could  be  contracted  all  that  is 
juxtaposed  in  space  and  successive  in  time.  Hence,  the 
whole  of  the  real  was  supposed  to  be  given  at  once.  The 
reciprocal  determination  of  the  juxtaposed  appearances  in 
space  was  explained  by  the  indivisibility  of  true  being,  and 
the  indexible  determinism  of  successive  phenomena  in  time 
simply  expressed  that  the  whole  of  being  is  given  in  the 
eternal. 

The  new  philosophy  was  going,  then,  to  be  a recommence- 
ment, or  rather  a transposition,  of  the  old.  The  ancient 
philosophy  had  taken  each  of  the  concepts  into  which  a 


IV.] 


SPINOZA  AND  LEIBNIZ 


349 


becoming  is  concentrated  or  which  mark  its  apogee:  it 
supposed  them  all  knowm,  and  gathered  them  up  into  a 
single  concept,  form  of  forms,  idea  of  ideas,  like  the  God 
of  Aristotle.  The  new  philosophy  was  going  to  take  each 
of  the  laws  which  condition  a becoming  in  relation  to  others 
and  which  are  as  the  permanent  substratum  of  phenomena : 
it  would  suppose  them  all  known,  and  would  gather  them 
up  into  a unity  which  also  would  express  them  eminently, 
but  which,  like  the  God  of  Aristotle  and  for  the  same 
reasons,  must  remain  immutably  shut  up  in  itself. 

True,  this  return  to  the  ancient  philosophy  was  not  with- 
out great  difficulties.  ^Vhen  a Plato,  an  Aristotle,  or  a 
Plotinus  melt  all  the  concepts  of  their  science  into  a single 
one,  in  so  doing  they  embrace  the  whole  of  the  real,  for 
concepts  are  supposed  to  represent  the  things  themselves, 
and  to  possess  at  least  as  much  positive  content.  But  a 
law,  in  general,  expresses  only  a relation,  and  physical 
laws  in  particular  express  only  quantitative  relations  be- 
tween concrete  things.  So  that  if  a modern  philosopher 
works  with  the  laws  of  the  new  science  as  the  Greek  philoso- 
pher did  with  the  concepts  of  the  ancient  science,  if  he  makes 
all  the  conclusions  of  a physics  supposed  omniscient  con- 
verge on  a single  point,  he  neglects  what  is  concrete  in  the 
phenomena — the  qualities  perceived,  the  perceptions  them- 
selves. His  synthesis  comprises,  it  seems,  only  a fraction 
of  reality.  In  fact,  the  first  result  of  the  new  science  was 
to  cut  the  real  into  two  halves,  quantity  and  quality,  the 
former  being  credited  to  the  account  of  bodies  and  the  latter 
to  the  account  of  souls.  The  ancients  had  raised  no  such 
barriers  either  between  quality  and  quantity  or  between 
soul  and  body.  For  them.,  the  mathematical  concepts 
were  concepts  like  the  others,  related  to  the  others  and 
fitting  quite  naturally  into  the  hierarchy  of  the  Ideas. 
Neither  was  the  body  then  defined  by  geometrical  extension. 


350 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


nor  the  soul  by  consciousness.  If  the  ([’op)  of  Aristotle, 
the  entelechy  of  a living  body,  is  less  spiritual  than  our 
^‘souV’  it  is  because  his  ocbim,  already  impregnated  with  the 
Idea,  is  less  corporeal  than  our  “body.’’  The  scission  was 
not  yet  irremediable  between  the  two  terms.  It  has  be- 
come so,  and  thence  a metaphysic  that  aims  at  an  abstract 
unity  must  resign  itself  either  to  comprehend  in  its  synthe- 
sis only  one  half  of  the  real,  or  to  take  advantage  of  the 
absolute  heterogeneity  of  the  two  halves  in  order  to  con- 
sider one  as  a translation  of  the  other.  Different  phrases 
will  express  different  things  if  they  belong  to  the  same 
language,  that  is  to  say,  if  there  is  a certain  relationship 
of  sound  between  them.  But  if  they  belong  to  two  different 
languages,  they  might,  just  because  of  their  radical  di- 
versity of  sound,  express  the  same  thing.  So  of  quality 
and  quantity,  of  soul  and  body.  It  is  for  having  cut  all 
connection  between  the  two  terms  that  philosophers  have 
been  led  to  establish  between  them  a rigorous  parallelism, 
of  which  the  ancients  had  not  dreamied,  to  regard  them  as 
translations  and  not  as  inversions  of  each  other;  in  short, 
to  posit  a fundamental  identity  as  a substratum  to  their 
duality.  The  synthesis  to  which  they  rose  thus  became 
capable  of  embracing  everything.  A divine  mechanism 
made  the  phenomena  of  thought  to  correspond  to  those  of 
extension,  each  to  each,  qualities  to  quantities,  souls  to 
bodies. 

It  is  this  parallelism  that  we  find  both  in  Leibniz  and  in 
Spinoza — in  different  forms,  it  is  true,  because  of  the  un- 
equal importance  which  they  attach  to  extension.  With 
Spinoza,  the  two  terms  Thought  and  Extension  are  placed, 
in  principle  at  least,  in  the  same  rank.  They  are,  there- 
fore, two  translations  of  one  and  the  same  original,  or,  as 
Spinoza  says,  two  attributes  of  one  and  the  same  substance, 
which  we  must  call  God.  And  these  two  translations, 


iv.l 


SPINOZA  AND  LEIBNIZ 


351 


as  also  an  infinity  of  others  into  languages  which  we  know 
not,  are  called  up  and  even  forced  into  existence  by  the 
original,  just  as  the  essence  of  the  circle  is  translated  auto- 
matically, so  to  speak,  both  by  a figure  and  by  an  equation. 
For  Leibniz,  on  the  contrary,  extension  is  indeed  still  a 
translation,  but  it  is  thought  that  is  the  original,  and 
thought  might  dispense  with  translation,  the  translation 
being  made  only  for  us.  In  positing  God,  we  necessarily 
posit  also  all  the  possible  views  of  God,  that  is  to  say,  the 
monads.  But  we  can  always  imagine  that  a view  has  been 
taken  from  a point  of  view,  and  it  is  natural  for  an  imperfect 
mind  like  ours  to  class  views,  qualitatively  different,  ac- 
cording to  the  order  and  position  of  points  of  view,  quali- 
tatively identical,  from  which  the  views  might  have  been 
taken.  In  reality  the  points  of  view  do  not  exist,  for  there 
are  only  views,  each  given  in  an  indivisible  block  and 
representing  in  its  ov/n  way  the  whole  of  realit^q  which  is 
God.  But  we  need  to  express  the  plurality  of  the  views, 
that  are  unlike  each  other,  by  the  multiplicity  of  the  points 
of  view  that  are  exterior  to  each  other;  and  we  also  need 
to  symbolize  the  more  or  less  close  relationship  between 
the  views  by  the  relative  situation  of  the  points  of  view  to 
one  another,  their  nearness  or  their  distance,  that  is  to  say, 
by  a magnitude.  That  is  what  Leibniz  means  when  he 
says  that  space  is  the  order  of  coexistents,  that  the  per- 
ception of  extension  is  a confused  perception  (that  is  to  say, 
a perception  relative  to  an  imperfect  mind),  and  that 
nothing  exists  but  monads,  expressing  thereby  that  the 
real  Whole  has  no  parts,  but  is  repeated  to  infinity,  each 
time  integrally  (though  diversely)  within  itself,  and  that 
all  these  repetitions  are  complementary  to  each  other. 
In  just  the  same  way,  the  visible  relief  of  an  object  is  equiva- 
lent to  the  whole  set  of  stereoscopic  views  taken  of  it  from 
all  points,  so  that,  instead  of  seeing  in  the  relief  a juxta- 


352 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


position  of  solid  parts,  we  might  quite  as  well  look  upon  it 
as  made  of  the  reciprocal  complementarity  of  these  whole 
views,  each  given  in  block,  each  indivisible,  each  different 
from  all  the  others  and  yet  representative  of  the  same  thing. 
The  Whole,  that  is  to  say,  God,  is  this  very  relief  for  Leibniz, 
and  the  monads  are  these  complementary  plane  views; 
for  that  reason  he  defines  God  as  “the  substance  that  has 
no  point  of  view,”  or,  again,  as  “the  universal  harmony,” 
that  is  to  say,  the  reciprocal  complementarity  of  monads. 
In  short,  Leibniz  differs  from  Spinoza  in  this,  that  he  looks 
upon  the  universal  mechanism  as  an  aspect  which  reality 
takes  for  us,  whereas,  Spinoza  makes  of  it  an  aspect  which 
reality  takes  for  itself. 

It  is  true  that,  after  having  concentrated  in  God  the 
whole  of  the  real,  it  became  difficult  for  them  to  pass  from 
God  to  things,  from  eternity  to  time.  The  difficulty  was 
even  much  greater  for  these  philosophers  than  an  Aristotle 
or  a Plotinus.  The  God  of  Aristotle,  indeed,  had  been 
obtained  by  the  compression  and  reciprocal  compene- 
tration  of  the  Ideas  that  represent,  in  their  finished  state 
or  in  their  culminating  point,  the  changing  things  of  the 
world.  He  vras,  therefore,  transcendent  to  the  world, 
and  the  duration  of  things  was  juxtaposed  to  His  eternity, 
of  which  it  was  only  a weakening.  But  in  the  principle 
to  which  we  are  led  by  the  consideration  of  universal 
mechanism,  and  which  must  serve  as  its  substratum,  it 
is  not  concepts  or  things,  but  laws  or  relations  that  are 
condensed.  Now,  a relation  does  not  exist  separately. 
A law  connects  changing  terms  and  is  immanent  in  what 
it  governs.  The  principle  in  which  all  these  relations 
are  ultimately  summed  up,  and  which  is  the  basis  of  the 
unity  of  nature,  cannot,  therefore,  be  transcendent  to 
sensible  reality;  it  is  immanent  in  it,  and  we  must  suppose 
that  it  is  at  once  both  in  and  out  of  time,  gathered  up  in  the 


IV.l 


SPINOZA  AND  LEIBNIZ 


353 


unity  of  its  substance  and  yet  condemned  to  wind  it  off  in 
an  endless  chain.  Rather  than  formulate  so  appalling  a 
contradiction,  the  philosophers  were  necessarily  led  to 
sacrifice  the  weaker  of  the  two  terms,  and  to  regard  the 
temporal  aspect  of  things  as  a mere  illusion.  Leibniz  says 
so  in  explicit  terms,  for  he  makes  of  time,  as  of  space,  a 
confused  perception,  '\^^ile  the  multiplicity  of  his  monads 
expresses  only  the  diversity  of  views  taken  of  the  whole, 
the  history  of  an  isolated  monad  seems  to  be  hardly  any- 
thing else  than  the  manifold  views  that  it  can  take  of  its 
own  substance : so  that  time  would  consist  in  all  the  points 
of  view  that  each  monad  can  assume  towards  itself,  as 
space  consists  in  all  the  points  of  view  that  all  monads 
can  assume  towards  God.  But  the  thought  of  Spinoza 
is  much  less  clear,  and  this  philosopher  seems  to  have  sought 
to  establish,  between  eternity  and  that  which  has  duration, 
the  same  difference  as  Aristotle  made  between  essence  and 
accidents:  a most  difficult  undertaking,  for  the  uAt)  of 
Aristotle  was  no  longer  there  to  measure  the  distance  and 
explain  the  passage  from  the  essential  to  the  accidental, 
Descartes  having  eliminated  it  for  ever.  However  that 
may  be,  the  deeper  we  go  into  the  Spinozistic  conception 
of  the  ‘‘inadequate,”  as  related  to  the  “adequate,”  the 
more  we  feel  ourselves  moving  in  the  direction  of  Aristote- 
lianism — just  as  the  Leibnizian  monads,  in  proportion  as 
they  mark  themselves  out  the  more  clearly,  tend  to  ap- 
proximate to  the  Intelligibles  of  Plotinus.^  The  natural 
trend  of  these  two  philosophies  brings  them  back  to  the 
conclusions  of  the  ancient  philosophy. 

To  sum  up,  the  resemblances  of  this  new  metaphysic 
to  that  of  the  ancients  arise  from  the  fact  that  both  suppose 

* In  a course  of  lectures  on  Plotinus,  given  at  the  College  de  France  in 
1897-1898,  we  tried  to  bring  out  these  resemblances.  They  are  numerous 
and  impressive.  The  analogy  is  continued  even  in  the  formulae  em- 
ployed on  each  side. 


354 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


ready-made — the  former  above  the  sensible,  the  latter 
within  the  sensible — a science  one  and  complete,  with 
which  any  reality  that  the  sensible  may  contain  is  believed 
to  coincide.  For  both,  reality  as  well  as  truth  are  integrally 
given  in  eternity.  Both  are  opposed  to  the  idea  of  a reality 
that  creates  itself  gradually,  that  is,  at  bottom,  to  an  ab- 
solute duration. 

Now,  it  might  easily  be  shown  that  the  conclusions  of 
this  metaphysic,  springing  from  science,  have  rebounded 
upon  science  itself,  as  it  were,  by  ricochet.  They  penetrate 
the  whole  of  our  so-called  empiricism.  Physics  and  chem- 
istry study  only  inert  matter;  biology,  when  it  treats  the 
living  being  physically  and  chemically,  considers  only 
the  inert  side  of  the  living:  hence  the  mechanistic  expla- 
nations, in  spite  of  their  development,  include  only  a small 
part  of  the  real.  To  suppose  a 'priori  that  the  whole  of 
the  real  is  resolvable  into  elements  of  this  kind,  or  at  least 
that  mechanism  can  give  a complete  translation  of  what 
happens  in  the  world,  is  to  pronounce  for  a certain  meta- 
physic— ^the  very  metaphysic  of  which  Spinoza  and  Leib- 
niz have  laid  down  the  principles  and  drawn  the  conse- 
quences. Certainly,  the  psycho-physiologist  who  affirms 
the  exact  equivalence  of  the  cerebral  and  the  psychical 
state,  who  imagines  the  possibility,  for  some  superhuman 
intellect,  of  reading  in  the  brain  what  is  going  on  in  con- 
sciousness, believes  himself  very  far  from  the  metaphysi- 
cians of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  very  near  to  experi- 
ence. Yet  experience  pure  and  simple  tells  us  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  shows  us  the  interdependence  of  the  mental  and 
the  physical,  the  necessity  of  a certain  cerebral  substratum 
for  the  psychical  state — nothing  more.  From  the  fact 
that  two  things  are  mutually  dependent,  it  does  not  follow 
that  they  are  equivalent.  Because  a certain  screw  is 


IV.I  PARALLELISM  AND  MONISM  355 

necessary  to  a certain  machine,  because  the  machine  works 
when  the  screw  is  there  and  stops  when  the  screw  is  taken 
away,  we  do  not  say  that  the  screw  is  the  equivalent  of 
the  machine.  For  correspondence  to  be  equivalence, 
it  would  be  necessary  that  to  any  part  of  the  machine  a 
definite  part  of  the  screw  should  correspond — as  in  a literal 
translation  in  which  each  chapter  renders  a chapter,  each 
sentence  a sentence,  each  word  a word.  Now,  the  re- 
lation of  the  brain  to  consciousness  seems  to  be  entirely 
different.  Not  only  does  the  hypothesis  of  an  equivalence 
between  the  psychical  state  and  the  cerebral  state  imply  a 
downright  absurdity,  as  we  have  tried  to  prove  in  a former 
essay, ^ but  the  facts,  examined  without  prejudice,  cer- 
tainly seem  to  indicate  that  the  relation  of  the  psychical 
to  the  physical  is  just  that  of  the  machine  to  the  screw. 
To  speak  of  an  equivalence  between  the  two  is  simply 
to  curtail,  and  make  almost  unintelligible,  the  Spinozis- 
tic  or  Leibnizian  metaphysic.  It  is  to  accept  this  philos- 
ophy, such  as  it  is,  on  the  side  of  Extension,  but  to  mutilate 
it  on  the  side  of  Thought.  With  Spinoza,  with  Leibniz, 
we  suppose  the  unifying  synthesis  of  the  phenomena  of 
matter  achieved,  and  ever3dhing  in  matter  explained 
mechanically.  But,  for  the  conscious  facts,  we  no  longer 
push  the  synthesis  to  the  end.  We  stop  half-way.  We 
suppose  consciousness  to  be  coextensive  with  a certain 
part  of  nature  and  not  with  all  of  it.  We  are  thus  led, 
sometimes  to  an  ^‘epiphenomenalism”  that  associates 
consciousness  with  certain  particular  vibrations  and  puts 
it  here  and  there  in  the  world  in  a sporadic  state,  and  some- 
times to  a “monism”  that  scatters  consciousness  into  as 
many  tiny  grains  as  there  are  atoms;  but,  in  either  case, 
it  is  to  an  incomplete  Spinozism  or  to  an  incomplete  Leib- 

i“Le  Paralogisme  psycho-physiologique”  {Revue  de  wetaphysique  et 
de  morale,  Nov.  1904,  pp.  895-908).  Cf.  Matiere  et  memoire,  Paris,  1896, 
chap.  i. 


356 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


nizianism  that  we  come  back.  Between  this  conception 
of  nature  and  Cartesianism  we  find,  moreover,  intermediate 
historical  stages.  The  medical  philosophers  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  with  their  cramped  Cartesianism,  have  had  a 
great  part  in  the  genesis  of  the  “ epiphenomenalism”  and 
“monism’'  of  the  present  day. 

These  doctrines  are  thus  found  to  fall  short  of  the  Kantian 
criticism.  Certainly,  the  philosophy  of  Kant  is  also  im- 
bued with  the  belief  in  a science  single  and  complete,  em- 
bracing the  whole  of  the  real.  Indeed,  looked  at  from  one 
aspect,  it  is  only  a continuation  of  the  metaphysics  of  the 
moderns  and  a transposition  of  the  ancient  metaphysics. 
Spinoza  and  Leibniz  had,  following  Aristotle,  hypostatized 
in  God  the  unity  of  knowledge.  The  Kantian  criticism, 
on  one  side  at  least,  consists  in  asking  whether  the  whole 
of  this  hypothesis  is  necessary  to  modern  science  as  it  was 
to  ancient  science,  or  if  part  of  the  hypothesis  is  not  suf- 
ficient. For  the  ancients,  science  applied  to  concepts, 
that  is  to  say,  to  kinds  of  things.  In  compressing  all  con- 
cepts into  one,  they  therefore  necessarily  arrived  at  a 
being,  which  we  may  call  Thought,  but  which  was  rather 
thought-object  than  thought-subject.  When  Aristotle 
defined  God  the  vo-qoccjs  vorjacs,  it  is  probably  on  vorjoBcjs, 
and  not  on  i^orjocs  that  he  put  the  emphasis.  God  was 
the  synthesis  of  all  concepts,  the  idea  of  ideas.  But 
modern  science  turns  on  laws,  that  is,  on  relations.  Now, 
a relation  is  a bond  established  by  a mind  between  two 
or  more  terms.  A relation  is  nothing  outside  of  the  in- 
tellect that  relates.  The  universe,  therefore,  can  only 
be  a system  of  laws  if  phenomena  have  passed  beforehand 
through  the  filter  of  an  intellect.  Of  course,  this  intellect 
might  be  that  of  a being  infinitely  superior  to  man,  who 
would  found  the  materiality  of  things  at  the  same  time  that 


IV.l 


THE  KANTIAN  CRITICISM 


357 


he  bound  them  together:  such  was  the  hypothesis  of  Leib- 
niz and  of  Spinoza.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  so  far, 
and,  for  the  effect  we  have  here  to  obtain,  the  human 
intellect  is  enough:  such  is  precisely  the  Kantian  solution. 
Between  the  dogmatism  of  a Spinoza  or  a Leibniz  and  the 
criticism  of  Kant  there  is  just  the  same  distance  as  between 
“it  may  be  maintained  that — and  “it  suffices  that — 
Kant  stops  this  dogmatism  on  the  incline  that  w^as  making 
it  slip  too  far  toward  the  Greek  metaphysics;  he  reduces 
to  the  strict  minimum  the  hypothesis  which  is  necessary 
in  order  to  suppose  the  physics  of  Galileo  indefinitely  ex- 
tensible. True,  when  he  speaks  of  the  human  intellect,  he 
means  neither  yours  nor  mine:  the  unity  of  nature  comes 
indeed  from  the  human  understanding  that  unifies,  but 
the  unifying  function  that  operates  here  is  impersonal. 
It  imparts  itself  to  our  individual  consciousnesses,  but  it 
transcends  them.  It  is  much  less  than  a substantial  God; 
it  is,  how^ever,  a little  more  than  the  isolated  work  of  a man 
or  even  than  the  collective  work  of  humanity.  It  does  not 
exactly  lie  within  man;  rather,  man  lies  within  it,  as  in 
an  atmosphere  of  intellectuality  which  his  consciousness 
breathes.  It  is,  if  we  will,  a formal  God,  something  that 
in  Kant  is  not  yet  divine,  but  which  tends  to  become  so. 
It  became  so,  indeed,  with  Fichte.  With  Kant,  however, 
its  principal  role  was  to  give  to  the  whole  of  our  science 
a relative  and  human  character,  although  of  a humanity 
already  somewhat  deified.  From  this  point  of  view,  the 
criticism  of  Kant  consisted  chiefly  in  limiting  the  dog- 
matism of  his  predecessors,  accepting  their  conception 
of  science  and  reducing  to  a minimum  the  metaphysic 
it  implied. 

But  it  is  otherwise  with  the  Kantian  distinction  between 
the  matter  of  knowledge  and  its  form.  By  regarding  in- 
telligence as  pre-eminently  a faculty  of  establishing  re- 


358 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


lations,  Kant  attributed  an  extra-intellectual  origin  to  the 
terms  between  which  the  relations  are  established.  He 
affirmed,  against  his  immediate  predecessors,  that  know- 
ledge is  not  entirely  resolvable  into  terms  of  intelligence. 
He  brought  back  into  philosophy — while  modifying  it 
and  carrying  it  on  to  another  plane — that  essential  element 
of  the  philosophy  of  Descartes  which  had  been  abandoned 
by  the  Cartesians. 

Thereby  he  prepared  the  way  for  a new  philosophy, 
which  might  have  established  itself  in  the  extra-intellectual 
matter  of  knowledge  by  a higher  effort  of  intuition.  Co- 
inciding with  this  matter,  adopting  the  same  rhythm  and 
the  same  movement,  might  not  consciousness,  by  two 
efforts  of  opposite  direction,  raising  itself  and  lowering 
itself  by  turns,  become  able  to  grasp  from  within,  and  no 
longer  perceive  only  from  without,  the  two  forms  of  reality, 
body  and  mind?  Would  not  this  twofold  effort  make  us, 
as  far  as  that  is  possible,  re-live  the  absolute?  Moreover, 
as,  in  the  course  of  this  operation,  we  should  see  intellect 
spring  up  of  itself,  cut  itself  out  in  the  whole  of  mind,  in- 
tellectual knowledge  would  then  appear  as  it  is,  limited, 
but  not  relative. 

Such  was  the  direction  that  Kantianism  might  have 
pointed  out  to  a revivified  Cartesianism.  But  in  this 
direction  Kant  himself  did  not  go. 

He  would  not,  because,  while  assigning  to  knowledge 
an  extra-intellectual  matter,  he  believed  this  matter  to 
be  either  co-extensive  with  intellect  or  less  extensive  than 
intellect.  Therefore  he  could  not  dream  of  cutting  out 
intellect  in  it,  nor,  consequently,  of  tracing  the  genesis 
of  the  understanding  and  its  categories.  The  molds 
of  the  understanding  and  the  understanding  itself  had  to  be 
accepted  as  they  are,  already  made.  Between  the  matter 
presented  to  our  intellect  and  this  intellect  itself  there  was 


IV.l 


THE  KANTIAN  CRITICISM 


359 


no  relationship.  The  agreement  between  the  two  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  intellect  imposed  its  form  on  matter.  So 
that  not  only  was  it  necessary  to  posit  the  intellectual 
form  of  knowledge  as  a kind  of  absolute  and  give  up  the 
quest  of  its  genesis,  but  the  very  matter  of  this  knowledge 
seemed  too  ground  down  by  the  intellect  for  us  to  be  able 
to  hope  to  get  it  back  in  its  original  purity.  It  was  not 
the  “thing-in-itself,”  it  was  only  the  refraction  of  it  through 
our  atmosphere. 

If  now  we  inquire  why  Kant  did  not  believe  that  the 
matter  of  our  knowledge  extends  beyond  its  form,  this  is 
what  we  find.  The  criticism  of  our  knowledge  of  nature 
that  was  instituted  by  Kant  consisted  in  ascertaining  what 
our  mind  must  be  and  what  Nature  must  be  if  the  claims 
of  our  science  are  justified;  but  of  these  claims  themselves 
Kant  has  not  made  the  criticism.  I mean  that  he  took  for 
granted  the  idea  of  a science  that  is  one,  capable  of  bind- 
ing with  the  same  force  all  the  parts  of  what  is  given,  and 
of  co-ordinating  them  into  a system  presenting  on  all  sides 
an  equal  solidity.  He  did  not  consider,  in  his  Critique 
of  Pure  Reason,  that  science  became  less  and  less  objective, 
more  and  more  symbolical,  to  the  extent  that  it  w^ent 
from  the  physical  to  the  vital,  from  the  vital  to  the  psychical. 
Experience  does  not  move,  to  his  view,  in  two  different 
and  perhaps  opposite  ways,  the  one  conformable  to  the 
direction  of  the  intellect,  the  other  contrary  to  it.  There 
is,  for  him,  only  one  experience,  and  the  intellect  covers 
its  whole  ground.  This  is  what  Kant  expresses  by  saying 
that  all  our  intuitions  are  sensuous,  or,  in  other  words, 
infra-intellectual.  And  this  would  have  to  be  admitted, 
indeed,  if  our  science  presented  in  all  its  parts  an  equal 
objectivity.  But  suppose,  on  the  contrary,  that  science 
is  less  and  less  objective,  more  and  more  symbolical,  as  it 
goes  from  the  physical  to  the  psychical,  passing  through 


360 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


the  vital:  then,  as  it  is  indeed  necessary  to  perceive  a 
thing  somehow  in  order  to  symbolize  it,  there  would  be  an 
intuition  of  the  psychical,  and  more  generally  of  the  vital, 
which  the  intellect  would  transpose  and  translate,  no 
doubt,  but  which  would  none  the  less  transcend  the  in- 
tellect. There  would  be,  in  other  words,  a supra-intel- 
lectual  intuition.  If  this  intuition  exist,  a taking  possession 
of  the  spirit  by  itself  is  possible,  and  no  longer  only  a know- 
ledge that  is  external  and  phenomenal.  What  is  more, 
if  we  have  an  intuition  of  this  kind  (I  mean  an  ultra-in- 
tellectual intuition)  then  sensuous  intuition  is  likely  to 
be  in  continuity  with  it  through  certain  intermediaries, 
as  the  infra-red  is  continuous  with  the  ultra-violet.  Sen- 
suous intuition  itself,  therefore,  is  promoted.  It  will 
no  longer  attain  only  the  phantom  of  an  unattainable 
thing-in-itself.  It  is  (provided  we  bring  to  it  certain 
indispensable  corrections)  into  the  absolute  itself  that  it 
will  introduce  us.  So  long  as  it  was  regarded  as  the  only 
material  of  our  science,  it  reflected  back  on  all  science 
something  of  the  relativity  which  strikes  a scientific  know- 
ledge of  spirit ; and  thus  the  perception  of  bodies,  which  is 
the  beginning  of  the  science  of  bodies,  seemed  itself  to 
be  relative.  Relative,  therefore,  seem.ed  to . be  sensuous 
intuition.  But  this  is  not  the  case  if  distinctions  are  made 
between  the  different  sciences,  and  if  the  scientific  knowledge 
of  the  spiritual  (and  also,  consequently,  of  the  vital)  be 
regarded  as  the  more  or  less  artificial  extension  of  a certain 
manner  of  knowing  which,  applied  to  bodies,  is  not  at  all 
symbolical.  Let  us  go  further:  if  there  are  thus  two  in- 
tuitions of  different  order  (the  second  being  obtained  by  a 
reversal  of  the  direction  of  the  first),  and  if  it  is  toward  the 
second  that  the  intellect  naturally  inclines,  there  is  no 
essential  difference  between  the  intellect  and  this  intuition 
itself.  The  barriers  between  the  matter  of  sensible  know- 


IV.] 


THE  KANTIAN  CRITICISM 


361 


ledge  and  its  fonn  are  lowered,  as  also  between  the  “pure 
forms’’  of  sensibility  and  the  categories  of  the  understand- 
ing. The  matter  and  form  of  intellectual  knowledge 
(restricted  to  its  own  object)  are  seen  to  be  engendering 
each  other  by  a reciprocal  adaptation,  intellect  modeling 
.itself  on  corporeity,  and  corporeity  on  intellect. 

But  this  duality  of  intuition  Kant  neither  would  nor 
could  admit.  It  would  have  been  necessary,  in  order  to  ad- 
mit it,  to  regard  duration  as  the  very  stuff  of  reality,  and 
consequently  to  distinguish  between  the  substantial  du- 
ration of  things  and  time  spread  out  in  space.  It  would 
have  been  necessary  to  regard  space  itself,  and  the  geometry 
which  is  immanent  in  space,  as  an  ideal  limit  in  the  direction 
of  which  material  things  develop,  but  w^hich  they  do  not 
actually  attain.  Nothing  could  be  more  contrary  to  the 
letter,  and  perhaps  also  to  the  spirit,  of  the  Critique  of 
Pure  Reason.  No  doubt,  knowledge  is  presented  to  us  in 
it  as  an  ever-open  roll,  experience  as  a push  of  facts  that 
is  for  ever  going  on.  But,  according  to  Kant,  these  facts 
are  spread  out  on  one  plane  as  fast  as  they  arise ; they  are 
external  to  each  other  and  external  to  the  mind.  Of  a 
knowledge  from  within,  that  could  grasp  them  in  their 
springing  forth  instead  of  taking  them  already  sprung, 
that  w^ould  dig  beneath  space  and  spatialized  time,  there 
is  never  any  question.  Yet  it  is  indeed  beneath  this  plane 
that  our  consciousness  places  us;  there  flows  true  duration. 

In  this  respect,  also,  Kant  is  very  near  his  predecessors. 
Between  the  non-temporal,  and  the  time  that  is  spread 
out  in  distinct  moments,  he  admits  no  mean.  And  as 
there  is  indeed  no  intuition  that  carries  us  into  the  non- 
temporal, all  intuition  is  thus  found  to  be  sensuous,  by 
definition.  But  between  physical  existence,  which  is 
spread  out  in  space,  and  non-temporal  existence,  which 
can  oiuy  be  a conceptual  and  logical  existence  like  that 


362 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


(CHAP. 


of  which  metaphysical  dogmatism  speaks,  is  there  not 
room  for  consciousness  and  for  life?  There  is,  unquestion- 
ably. We  perceive  it  when  we  place  ourselves  in  duration 
in  order  to  go  from  that  duration  to  moments,  instead  of 
starting  from  moments  in  order  to  bind  them  again  and 
to  construct  duration. 

Yet  it  was  to  a non-temporal  intuition  that  the  immediate 
successors  of  Kant  turned,  in  order  to  escape  from  the 
Kantian  relativism.  Certainly,  the  ideas  of  becoming, 
of  progress,  of  evolution,  seem  to  occupy  a large  place  in 
their  philosophy.  But  does  duration  really  play  a part 
in  it?  Real  duration  is  that  in  which  each  form  flows  out 
of  previous  forms,  wKile  adding  to  them  something  new, 
and  is  explained  by  them  as  much  as  it  explains  them; 
but  to  deduce  this  form  directly  from  one  complete  Being 
which  it  is  supposed  to  manifest,  is  to  return  to  Spinozism. 
It  is,  like  Leibniz  and  Spinoza,  to  deny  to  duration  all 
efficient  action.  The  post-Kantian  philosophy,  severe 
as  it  may  have  been  on  the  mechanistic  theories,  accepts 
from  mechanism  the  idea  of  a science  that  is  one  and  the 
same  for  all  kinds  of  reality.  And  it  is  nearer  to  mechanism 
than  it  imagines;  for  though,  in  the  consideration  of  matter, 
of  life  and  of  thought,  it  replaces  the  successive  degrees 
of  complexity,  that  mechanism  supposed  by  degrees  of  the 
realization  of  an  Idea  or  by  degrees  of  the  objectification 
of  a Will,  it  still  speaks  of  degrees,  and  these  degrees  are 
those  of  a scale  which  Being  traverses  in  a single  direction. 
In  short,  it  makes  out  the  same  articulations  in  nature  that 
mechanism  does.  Of  mechanism  it  retains  the  whole 
design;  it  merely  gives  it  a different  coloring.  But  it 
is  the  design  itself,  or  at  least  one  half  of  the  design,  that 
needs  to  be  re-made. 

If  we  are  to  do  that,  we  must  give  up  the  method  of 
construction,  which  was  that  of  Kant’s  successors.  We 


iv.l 


THE  KANTIAN  CRITICISM 


363 


must  appeal  to  experience — an  experience  purified,  or, 
in  other  words,  released,  where  necessary,  from  the  molds 
that  our  intellect  has  formed  in  the  degree  and  proportion 
of  the  progress  of  our  action  on  things.  An  experience 
of  this  kind  is  not  a non-temporal  experience.  It  only 
seeks,  beyond  the  spatialized  time  in  which  we  believe 
we  see  continual  rearrangements  between  the  parts,  that 
concrete  duration  in  which  a radical  recasting  of  the  w^hole 
is  always  going  on.  It  follows  the  real  in  all  its  sinuosities. 
It  does  not  lead  us,  like  the  method  of  construction,  to 
higher  and  higher  generalities — piled-up  stories  of  a mag- 
nificent building.  But  then  it  leaves  no  play  between  the 
explanations  it  suggests  and  the  objects  it  has  to  explain. 
It  is  the  detail  of  the  real,  and  no  longer  only  the  whole 
in  a lump,  that  it  claims  to  illumine. 

That  the  thought  of  the  nineteenth  century  called  for  a 
philosophy  of  this  kind,  rescued  from  the  arbitrary,  capable 
of  coming  down  to  the  detail  of  particular  facts,  is  un- 
questionable. Unquestionably,  also,  it  felt  that  this 
philosophy  ought  to  establish  itself  in  what  we  call  con- 
crete duration.  The  advent  of  the  moral  sciences,  the 
progress  of  psychology,  the  growing  importance  of  embry- 
ology among  the  biological  sciences — all  this  was  bound 
to  suggest  the  idea  of  a reality  wUich  endures  inwardly, 
which  is  duration  itself.  So,  when  a philosopher  arose  who 
announced  a doctrine  of  evolution,  in  wUich  the  progress 
of  matter  toward  perceptibility  would  be  traced  together 
with  the  advance  of  the  mind  toward  rationality,  in  which 
the  complication  of  correspondences  between  the  external 
and  the  internal  would  be  followed  step  by  step,  in  w^hich 
change  would  become  the  very  substance  of  things — to 
him  all  eyes  were  turned.  The  powerful  attraction  that 
Spencerian  evolutionism  has  exercised  on  contemporary 


364 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


thought  is  due  to  that  very  cause.  However  far  Spencer 
may  seem  to  be  from  Kant,  however  ignorant,  indeed,  he 
may  have  been  of  Kantianism,  he  felt,  nevertheless,  at 
his  first  contact  with  the  biological  sciences,  the  direction 
in  which  philosophy  could  continue  to  advance  without 
laying  itself  open  to  the  Kantian  criticism. 

But  he  had  no  sooner  started  to  follow  the  path  than  he 
turned  off  short.  He  had  promised  to  retrace  a genesis, 
and,  lo!  he  was  doing  something  entirely  different.  His 
doctrine  bore  indeed  the  name  of  evolutionism;  it  claimed 
to  remount  and  redescend  the  course  of  the  universal 
becoming;  but,  in  fact,  it  dealt  neither  with  becoming 
nor  with  evolution. 

We  need  not  enter  here  into  a profound  examination  of 
this  philosophy.  Let  us  say  merely  that  the  usual  device  of  the 
Spencerian  method  consists  in  reconstructing  evolution  uith 
fragments  of  the  evolved.  If  I paste  a picture  on  a card  and 
then  cut  up  the  card  into  bits,  I can  reproduce  the  picture 
by  rightly  grouping  again  the  small  pieces.  And  a child 
who  working  thus  with  the  pieces  of  a puzzle-picture,  and 
putting  together  unformed  fragments  of  the  picture  finally 
obtains  a pretty  colored  design,  no  doubt  imagines  that  he 
has  produced  design  and  color.  Yet  the  act  of  drawing 
and  painting  has  nothing  to  do  with  that  of  putting  to- 
gether the  fragments  of  a picture  already  drawn  and  al- 
ready painted.  So,  by  combining  together  the  most  simple 
results  of  evolution,  you  may  imitate  well  or  ill  the  most 
complex  effects;  but  of  neither  the  simple  nor  the  complex 
will  you  have  retraced  the  genesis,  and  the  addition  of 
evolved  to  evolved  will  bear  no  resemblance  whatever  to 
the  movement  of  evolution. 

Such,  however,  is  Spencer’s  illusion.  He  takes  reality 
in  its  present  form;  he  breaks  it  to  pieces,  he  scatters 
it  in  fragments  which  he  throws  to  the  winds;  then  he 


IV.I  THE  EVOLUTIONISM  OF  SPENCER  365 


^‘integrates’’  these  fragments  and  “dissipates  their  move- 
ment.” Having  imitated  the  Whole  by  a work  of  mosaic, 
he  imagines  he  has  retraced  the  design  of  it,  and  made  the 
genesis. 

Is  it  matter  that  is  in  question?  The  diffused  elements 
which  he  integrates  into  visible  and  tangible  bodies  have 
all  the  air  of  being  the  very  particles  of  the  simple  bodies, 
which  he  first  supposes  disseminated  throughout  space. 
They  are,  at  any  rate,  “material  points,”  and  consequently 
unvarying  points,  veritable  little  solids:  as  if  solidity, 
being  what  is  nearest  and  handiest  to  us,  could  be  found 
at  the  very  origin  of  materiality!  The  more  physics  pro- 
gresses, the  more  it  shows  the  impossibility  of  representing 
the  properties  of  ether  or  of  electricity — the  probable  base 
of  all  bodies — on  the  model  of  the  properties  of  the  matter 
which  we  perceive.  But  philosophy  goes  back  further 
even  than  the  ether,  a mere  schematic  figure  of  the  re- 
lations between  phenomena  apprehended  by  our  senses. 
It  knows  indeed  that  what  is  visible  and  tangible  in  things 
represents  our  possible  action  on  them.  It  is  not  by  divid- 
ing the  evolved  that  we  shall  reach  the  principle  of  that 
which  evolves.  It  is  not  by  recomposing  the  evolved 
with  itself  that  we  shall  reproduce  the  evolution  of  which 
it  is  the  term. 

Is  it  the  question  of  mind?  By  compounding  the 
reflex  with  the  reflex,  Spencer  thinks  he  generates  instinct 
and  rational  volition  one  after  the  other.  He  fails  to  see 
that  the  specialized  reflex,  being  a terminal  point  of  evo- 
lution just  as  much  as  perfect  will,  cannot  be  supposed 
at  the  start.  That  the  first  of  the  two  terms  should  have 
reached  its  final  form  before  the  other  is  probable  enough; 
but  both  the  one  and  the  other  are  deposits  of  the  evolution 
movement,  and  the  evolution  movement  itself  can  no  more 
be  expressed  as  a function  solely  of  the  first  than  solely 


366 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


of  the  second.  We  must  begin  by  mixing  the  reflex  and 
the  voluntary.  We  must  then  go  in  quest  of  the  fluid 
reality  which  has  been  precipitated  in  this  twofold  form, 
and  which  probably  shares  in  both  without  being  either. 
At  the  lowest  degree  of  the  animal  scale,  in  living  beings 
that  are  but  an  undifferentiated  protoplasmic  mass,  the 
reaction  to  stimulus  does  not  3^et  call  into  play  one  definite 
mechanism,  as  in  the  reflex;  it  has  not  yet  choice  among 
several  definite  mechanisms,  as  in  the  voluntary  act ; it  is, 
then,  neither  voluntary  nor  reflex,  though  it  heralds  both. 
We  experience  in  ourselves  something  of  this  true  original 
activity  when  we  perform  semi- voluntary  and  semi-auto- 
matic movements  to  escape  a pressing  danger.  And  yet 
this  is  but  a very  imperfect  imitation  of  the  primitive  char- 
acter, for  we  are  concerned  here  with  a mixture  of  two 
activities  already  formed,  already  localized  in  a brain 
and  in  a spinal  cord,  whereas  the  original  activity  was  a 
simple  thing,  which  became  diversified  through  the  very 
construction  of  mechanisms  like  those  of  the  spinal  cord 
and  brain.  But  to  all  this  Spencer  shuts  his  eyes,  because 
it  is  of  the  essence  of  his  method  to  recompose  the  con- 
solidated with  the  consolidated,  instead  of  going  back 
to  the  gradual  process  of  consolidation,  which  is  evolution 
itself. 

Is  it,  finally,  the  question  of  the  correspondence  between 
mind  and  matter?  Spencer  is  right  in  defining  the  in- 
tellect by  this  correspondence.  He  is  right  in  regarding 
it  as  the  end  of  an  evolution.  But  when  he  comes  to  re- 
trace this  evolution,  again  he  integrates  the  evolved  with 
the  evolved — failing  to  see  that  he  is  thus  taking  useless 
trouble,  and  that  in  positing  the  slightest  fragment  of 
the  actually  evolved  he  posits  the  whole — so  that  it  is 
vain  for  him,  then,  to  pretend  to  make  the  genesis  of  it. 

For,  according  to  him,  the  phenomena  that  succeed 


IV.I  THE  EVOLUTIONISM  OF  SPENCER  367 


each  other  in  nature  project  into  the  human  mind  images 
which  represent  them.  To  the  relations  between  phenom- 
ena, therefore,  correspond  symmetrically  relations  between 
the  ideas.  And  the  most  general  laws  of  nature,  in  which 
the  relations  between  phenomena  are  condensed,  are  thus 
found  to  have  engendered  the  directing  principles  of  thought, 
into  which  the  relations  between  ideas  have  been  integrated. 
Nature,  therefore,  is  reflected  in  mind.  The  intimate 
structure  of  our  thought  corresponds,  piece  by  piece,  to 
the  very  skeleton  of  things — I admit  it  willingly;  but,  in 
order  that  the  human  mind  may  be  able  to  represent  re- 
lations between  phenomena,  there  must  first  be  phenomena, 
that  is  to  say,  distinct  facts,  cut  out  in  the  continuity  of 
becoming.  And  once  we  posit  this  particular  mode  of 
cutting  up  such  as  we  perceive  it  to-day,  we  posit  also  the 
intellect  such  as  it  is  to-day,  for  it  is  by  relation  to  it,  and 
to  it  alone,  that  reality  is  cut  up  in  this  manner.  Is  it 
probable  that  mammals  and  insects  notice  the  same  aspects 
of  nature,  trace  in  it  the  same  divisions,  articulate  the  whole 
in  the  same  way?  And  yet  the  insect,  so  far  as  intelligent, 
has  already  something  of  our  intellect.  Each  being  cuts 
up  the  material  world  according  to  the  lines  that  its  action 
must  follow:  it  is  these  lines  of  possible  action  that,  by 
intercrossing,  mark  out  the  net  of  experience  of  which 
each  mesh  is  a fact.  No  doubt,  a town  is  composed  ex- 
clusively of  houses,  and  the  streets  of  the  town  are  only  the 
intervals  between  the  houses : so,  w^e  may  say  that  nature 
contains  only  facts,  and  that,  the  facts  once  posited,  the 
relations  are  simply  the  lines  running  between  the  facts. 
But,  in  a town,  it  is  the  gradual  portioning  of  the  ground 
into  lots  that  has  determined  at  once  the  place  of  the  houses, 
their  general  shape,  and  the  direction  of  the  streets:  to 
this  portioning  we  must  go  back  if  we  wish  to  understand 
the  particular  mode  of  subdivision  that  causes  each  house 


368 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


[CHAP. 


to  be  where  it  is,  each  street  to  run  as  it  does.  Now,  the 
cardinal  error  of  Spencer  is  to  take  experience  already 
allotted  as  given,  whereas  the  true  problem  is  to  know’ 
how  the  allotment  was  worked.  I agree  that  the  laws  of 
thought  are  only  the  integration  of  relations  betw’een 
facts.  But,  when  I posit  the  facts  with  the  shape  they 
have  for  me  to-day,  I suppose  my  faculties  of  perception 
and  intellection  such  as  they  are  in  me  to-day;  for  it  is 
they  that  portion  the  real  into  lots,  they  that  cut  the  facts 
out  in  the  whole  of  reality.  Therefore,  instead  of  saying 
that  the  relations  between  facts  have  generated  the  law’s 
of  thought,  I can  as  well  claim  that  it  is  the  form  of  thought 
that  has  determined  the  shape  of  the  facts  perceived,  and 
consequently  their  relations  among  themselves:  the  tw’o 
ways  of  expressing  oneself  are  equivalent;  they  say  at 
bottom  the  same  thing.  With  the  second,  it  is  true,  we 
give  up  speaking  of  evolution.  But,  with  the  first,  w’e 
only  speak  of  it,  we  do  not  think  of  it  any  the  more.  For 
a true  evolutionism  would  propose  to  discover  by  what 
modus  Vivendi,  gradually  obtained,  the  intellect  has  adopted 
its  plan  of  structure,  and  matter  its  mode  of  subdivision. 
This  structure  and  this  subdivision  work  into  each  other; 
they  are  mutually  complementary;  they  must  have  pro- 
gressed one  w’ith  the  other.  And,  whether  w’e  posit  the 
present  structure  of  mind  or  the  present  subdivision  of 
matter,  in  either  case  w^e  remain  in  the  evolved:  w’e  are 
told  nothing  of  w^hat  evolves,  nothing  of  evolution. 

And  yet  it  is  this  evolution  that  we  must  discover.  Al- 
ready, in  the  field  of  physics  itself,  the  scientists  w’ho  are 
pushing  the  study  of  their  science  furthest  incline  to  believe 
that  we  cannot  reason  about  the  parts  as  w’e  reason  about 
the  whole;  that  the  same  principles  are  not  applicable 
to  the  origin  and  to  the  end  of  a progress;  that  neither 
creation  nor  annihilation,  for  instance,  is  inadmissible 


IV.] 


THE  EVOLUTIONISM  OF  SPENCER  369 


when  we  are  concerned  with  the  constituent  corpuscles 
of  the  atom.  Thereby  they  tend  to  place  themselves 
in  the  concrete  duration,  in  which  alone  there  is  true 
generation  and  not  only  a composition  of  parts.  It  is 
true  that  the  creation  and  annihilation  of  which  they  speak 
concern  the  movement  or  the  energy,  and  not  the  imponder- 
able medium  through  which  the  energy  and  the  movement 
are  supposed  to  circulate.  But  what  can  remain  of  matter 
when  you  take  away  everything  that  determines  it,  that 
is  to  say,  just  energy  and  movement  themselves?  The 
philosopher  must  go  further  than  the  scientist.  Making 
a clean  sweep  of  everything  that  is  only  an  imaginative 
symbol,  he  will  see  the  material  world  melt  back  into  a 
simple  flux,  a continuity  of  flowing,  a becoming.  And  he 
will  thus  be  prepared  to  discover  real  duration  there  where 
it  is  still  more  useful  to  And  it,  in  the  realm  of  life  and  of 
consciousness.  For,  so  far  as  inert  matter  is  concerned, 
we  may  neglect  the  flowing  without  committing  a serious 
error:  matter,  we  have  said,  is  weighted  with  geometry; 
and  matter,  the  reality  wUich  descends,  endures  only  by 
its  connection  with  that  which  ascends.  But  life  and  con- 
sciousness are  this  very  ascension.  When  once  we  have 
grasped  them  in  their  essence  by  adopting  their  movement, 
we  understand  how  the  rest  of  reality  is  derived  from  them. 
Evolution  appears  and,  within  this  evolution,  the  pro- 
gressive determination  of  materiality  and  intellectuality 
by  the  gradual  consolidation  of  the  one  and  of  the  other. 
But,  then,  it  is  within  the  evolutionary  movement  that 
we  place  ourselves,  in  order  to  follow  it  to  its  present  re- 
sults, instead  of  recomposing  these  results  artificially  with 
fragments  of  themselves.  Such  seems  to  us  to  be  the  true 
function  of  philosophy.  So  understood,  philosophy  is 
not  only  the  turning  of  the  mind  homeward,  the  coincidence 
of  human  consciousness  with  the  living  principle  whence 


370 


CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 


it  emanates,  a contact  with  the  creative  effort:  it  is  the 
study  of  becoming  in  general,  it  is  true  evolutionism  and 
consequently  the  true  continuation  of  science — provided 
that  we  und  Tstand  by  this  word  a set  of  truths  either 
experienced  or  demonstrated,  and  not  a certain  new 
scholasticism  that  has  grown  up  during  the  latter  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century  around  the  physics  of  Galileo, 
as  the  old  scholasticism  grew  up  around  Aristotle. 


INDEX 

(Compiled  by  the  Translator) 


Abolition  of  everything  a self- 
contradiction,  280,  283,  296, 

298 

idea  of,  279,  282,  283,  295,  296. 
See  Nought 

Absence  of  order,  231,  234,  274. 
See  Disorder 

Absolute  and  freedom,  277 
reality,  99,  228-9,  269,  358,  361 
reality  of  the  person,  269 
time  and  the,  239,  240,  298,  340, 
344 

Absoluteness  of  duration,  206 
of  understanding,  xi,  47,  152, 
190,  197,  199 

Abstract  becoming,  304-7 
multiplicity,  257-9 
time,  9,  17,  20-2,  37,  39,  46,  51, 
163,  318-9,  336,  352-3 

Accident  and  essence  in  Aris- 
totle’s philosophy,  353 
in  evolution,  86-7,  104,  114-5, 
127,  169,  170,  252,  254-5,  266, 
267,  326-7 

Accidental  variations,  55,  63,  68, 
69,  74,  85-6,  168 

Accumulation  of  energy,  function 
of  vegetable  organisms,  253, 
255 

Achilles  and  tortoise,  in  Zeno, 
311,  312-3 

Acquired  characters,  inheritance 
of,  76-9,  83-4,  87,  169,  170,  173, 
231 

Act,  consciousness  as  inadequacy 
of,  to  representation,  144 
form  (or  essence),  quality, 
three  classes  of  representa- 
tion, 302-3 

Action,  creativeness  of  free,  192, 
247 

and  concepts,  160,  297 
and  consciousness,  xiii,  5,  143- 
4,  145,  179-80,  207,  262 
discontinuity  of,  154,  307 
freedom  of,  in  animals,  130 
as  function  of  nervous  system, 
262-3 


Action  {Continued) 
indivisibility  of,  94,  95,  308-9 
and  inert  matter,  96,  136,  141-2, 
156,  187,  198,  226,  366 
instinct  and,  136,  141 
instrument  of,  consciousness, 
180 

instrument  of,  life,  162 
instrument  of  matter,  161,  198-9 
as  instrument  of  consciousness, 
180 

and  intellect.  See  Intellect  and 
action 

intensity  of  consciousness  varies 
with  ratio  of  possible,  to 
real,  145 

meaning  of,  301-3 
moves  from  want  to  fulness, 
297,  298 

organism  a machine  for,  252, 
254,  300 

and  perception,  5,  11,  12,  93, 
188,  189,  206,  227-30,  300,  307, 
368 

possible,  12,  13,  96,  144,  145, 
146-7,  159,  165,  179-81,  188, 
264 

and  science,  93,  195-6,  198-9, 
329-30 

and  space,  203 
sphere  of  the  intellect,  155 
tension  in  a free,  200,  207,  238, 
240,  301-2 

Activity,  dissatisfaction  the  start- 
ing-point of,  297 
of  instinct,  continuous  with 
vital  process,  139,  140 
life  as,  128-9,  247 
mutually  inverse  factors  in 
vital,  248 

and  nervous  system,  110,  130, 
132-3,  134-5,  180,  252,  261-3 
organism  as,  174 
potential.  See  Action,  possible 
tension  of  free,  200,  202,  207-8, 
223-4,  237,  239,  300-1 
and  torpor  in  evolution,  109, 
111,  113,  114,  119-20,  129-30, 


INDEX 


372 


Activity,  (Continued) 

135-6,  181,  292 

vital,  has  evolved  divergently, 
134 

See  Divergent  lines  of  evolu- 
tion 

Adaptation,  50-1,  55,  57-8,  59,  70, 
101,  129,  133,  192,  255,  270, 
305-6 

and  causation,  102 
mutual,  between  materiality 
and  intellectuality,  187,  206-7 
and  progress,  101-2 
Adequate  and  inadequate  in 
Spinoza,  353 

Adjectives,  substantives  and 
verbs,  303-4,  315 
Aesthetics  and  philosophy,  177 
Affection,  Role  of,  in  the  idea  of 
chance,  234 

in  the  idea  of  nought,  281-3, 
289,  293,  295,  296 
in  negation,  286-7 
Affirmation  and  negation,  285-6, 
293 

Age  and  individuality,  15-6 
Albuminoid  substances,  121-2 
Alciope,  96 

Alexandrian  philosophy,  322,  323 
Algae  in  illustration  of  probable 
consciousness  in  vegetable 
forms,  112 

Alimentation,  113-4,  117,  247 
Allegory  of  the  Cave,  191 
Alternations  of  increase  and  de- 
crease of  mutability  of  the 
universe,  245-6 
Alveolar  froth,  33-4 
Ambiguity  of  the  idea  of  “gen- 
erality” in  philosophy,  230-1, 
320-1 

of  primitive  organisms,  99,  112. 
113,  129-30 

Ammophila  hirsuta,  paralyzing 
instinct  in,  173 

Amoeba,  in  illustration  of  imita- 
tion of  the  living  by  the  un- 
organized, 33-6 

in  illustration  of  the  ambiguity 
of  primitive  organisms,  99  , 

in  illustration  of  the  mobility 
characteristic  of  animals,  108 
in  illustration  of  the  “explo- 
sive” expenditure  of  energy 
characteristic  of  animals, 
120,  253 
Anagenesis,  34 

Anarchy,  idea  of,  233,  234.  See 
Disorder 


Anatomy,  comparative,  and 
transformism,  25 
Ancient  philosophy,  Achilles  and 
tortoise,  311-2 

Alexandrian  philosophy,  322-3 
Allegory  of  the  Cave,  191 
Anima  (De),  322  note 
Apogee  of  sensible  object,  344, 
345,  349 

Archimedes,  343-4 
Aristotle,  135,  174-5,  227-8,  314, 
316,  321,  323,  324,  328-33,  347, 
349,  353,  356,  370 
Arrow  of  Zeno,  308-13 
ascent  toward  God,  in  Aris- 
totle, 323 

Astronomy,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, 334-6 

attraction  and  impulsion  in, 
323-4 

becoming  in,  313-4,  317 
bow  and  indivisibility  of  mo- 
tion, 308-9 

Caelo  (De),  of  Aristotle,  322 
note,  324  note 

and  Cartesian  geometry,  334-5 
causality  in,  323,  325-6 
change  in,  313-4,  317,  328-9,  342- 
3 

cinematographical  nature  of. 
315 

circularity  of  God’s  thought, 
323-4 

concentric  spheres,  328 
concepts,  326-7,  356 
“conversion”  and  “procession” 
in,  323 

degradation  of  ideas  into  sensi- 
ble flux,  317-8,  321,  323-4,  327, 
328,  343-5,  352-3 
degrees  of  reality,  323-4,  327 
diminution,  derivation  of  be- 
coming by.  See  Degradation 
of  Ideas,  etc. 

duration,  317-9  note,  323-4,  327- 
9 

Eleatic  philosophy,  308,  314 
Enneads  of  Plotinus,  210  note 
essence  and  accident,  354 
essence  or  form,  314-5 
eternal,  317-8,  324-6 
Eternity,  317-8,  320,  324,  328 
9 

extension,  210  note,  318,  324, 

327 

form  or  idea,  314-20,  322,  327. 
329-31,  352 

geometry,  Cartesian,  and  an- 
cient philosophy,  334 


INDEX  373 


Ajicient  Philosophy,  (Continued) 
God  of  Aristotle,  196-7,  322-4, 
349,  352,  356 
353 

Idea,  314-22,  352-3 
and  indivisibility  of  motion, 
307-8,  311 

intelligible  reality  in,  326 
intelligibles  of  Plotinus,  353 
XdfOS,  of  Plotinus,  210  note 
matter  in  Aristotle's  philoso- 
phy, 316,  327 

and  modern  astronomy,  333-4, 
335 

and  modern  geometry,  333-4 
and  modem  philosophy,  226-7, 
228-9,  232,  281-2,  344-5,  346, 
349-51,  364,  369 

and  modern  science,  329-30, 
336,  342-3,  344-5,  357 
motion  in,  307-8,  312-3 
necessity  in,  327 
Wffaeojs  voTjacs,  356 
non-being,  316,  327 
VOUS  T.OiTjXiKOS,  322 
oscillation  about  being,  sensible 
reality  as,  317-8 

Physics  of  Aristotle,  227-8  note, 
324  note,  330-1 

Plato,  48,  156,  191,  210  note, 
316-8,  321-4,  327,  330,  348,  349 

Plotinus,  210,  316,  323,  326  note, 
349,  352-4 

procession  in  Alexandrian  phi- 
losophy, 323 
(l^vyfj,  210  note,  350 
realism  in,  232 

refraction  of  idea  through  mat- 
ter or  non-being,  317 
sectioning  of  becoming,  318-9 
sensible  reality,  314,  316-8,  321, 
327-9,  352-3 
GOJlia,  350 

space  and  time,  317-9,  320 
Timaeus,  318  note 
time  in  ancient  and  in  modern 
science,  330-1,  336-7,  341-4 
time  and  space,  317-9,  320 
vision  of  God  in  Alexandrian 
philosophy,  322 
Zeno,  308,  313 

Ancient  science  and  modern,  329- 
31,  336-7,  342-5,  357 

Anima  (De),  of  Aristotle,  322 
note 

Animal  kingdom,  12,  105-6,  119- 


21,  126,  129,  131-2,  134-6,  137- 
8,  139,  179,  184-5 
Animals,  105-47,  167,  170,  181,  183, 
187,  212,  214,  246,  252,  253, 

254,  262-5,  267,  271,  293,  301 
deduction  in,  212 
induction  in,  214 
and  man,  139-43,  183,  187,  188, 
212,  263,  264,  267 
and  man  in  respect  to  brain, 
183,  184-5,  263-5 
and  man  in  respect  to  con- 
sciousness, 139-43,  180,  183, 

187,  188,  192,  212,  263-8 
and  man  in  respect  to  instru- 
ments of  action,  139-43,  150-1 
and  man  in  respect  to  intelli- 
gence, 137-8,  187,  188,  191-2, 
212 

and  plants,  105-39,  124-6,  143, 
145,  146-7,  168-70,  181-2,  253, 
254,  293, 

and  plants  in  respect  to  activ- 
ity of  consciousness,  109,  111, 
113,  119-21,  128-9,  132,  134- 

6,  142-3,  144,  181-2,  293 
and  plants  in  respect  to  func- 
tion, 117-8,  121-2,  127 
and  plants  in  respect  to  in- 
stinct, 167,  170 

and  plants  in  respect  to  mobil- 
ity, 109,  110,  113,  129-30,  132- 
3,  135,  181 

and  plants  in  respect  to  nature 
of  consciousness,  134-5 
Antagonistic  currents  of  the  vital 
impetus,  129,  135-6,  181,  184, 
250,  258-9 
Anthophora,  146-7 
Antinomies  of  Kant,  204,  205 
Antipathy.  See  Sympathy,  Feel- 
ing, Divination 
Antithesis  and  thesis,  205 
Ants,  101,  134,  140,  157 
Ape’s  brain  and  consciousness 
contrasted  with  man’s,  263 
Aphasia,  181 

Apidae,  social  instinct  in  the, 
171 

Apogee  of  instinct  in  the  hymen - 
optera  and  of  intelligence  in 
man,  174-5  See  Evolution- 
ary superiority 

Apogee  of  sensible  object.  In 
philosophy  of  Ideas,  343-4, 
349 

Approximateness  of  the  know- 
ledge of  matter,  206-7 
Approximation,  in  matter,  to  the 


374 


INDEX 


mathematical  order,  218.  See 
Order 

Archimedes,  333-4 
Aristotle.  See  Ancient  Philoso- 
phy, Aristotle 

Arrow,  Flying,  of  Zeno,  308-9, 
310,  312-3 

Art,  6-7,  29  note,  45,  89,  177 
Artemla  Salina,  transformations 
of,  72,  73 

Arthropods  in  evolution,  130-5, 
142 

Articulate  species,  133 
Articulations  of  matter  relative 
'to  action,  156,  367 
of  motion,  310-1 
of  real  time,  332-3 
Artificial,  how  far  scientific 
knowledge  is,  197,  218-9 
instruments,  138,  139,  140-1 
Artist,  in  illustration  of  the  crea- 
tiveness of  duration,  340-1 
Ascending  cosmic  movement,  11, 
208,  275,  369 

Ascent  toward  God,  in  Aristotle, 
323 

Association  of  organisms,  260. 
See  Individuation 
universal  oscillation  between 
association  and  individua- 
tion, 259,  260.  See  Socie- 

ties 

Astronomy  and  deduction,  213 
and  the  inert  order,  224 
modern,  in  reference  to  ancient 
science,  334-6 

Atmosphere  of  spatiality  bathing 
intelligence,  204 
Atom,  240,  254,  255 
as  an  intellectual  view  of  mat- 
ter, 203  250 

and  interpenetration,  207 
Attack  and  defence  in  evolution, 
131-2 

Attention,  2,  148-9,  154,  184,  209 
discontinuity  of,  2 
in  man  and  in  lower  animals, 
184.  See  Tension  and  in- 
stinct, Tension  as  inverted 
extension.  Tension  of  person- 
ality, Sympathetic  apprecia- 
tion, etc..  Relaxation  and  in- 
tellect 

Attraction  and  impulsion  in 
Greek  philosophy,  323,  324 
Attribute  and  subject,  148 
Automatic  activity,  145 
as  instrument  of  voluntary,  252 
order,  224,  231-4.  See  Negative 


movement,  etc..  Geometrical 
order 

Automatism,  127,  143-4,  174,  223- 
4,  261,  264 

Background  of  instinct  and  intel- 
ligence, consciousness  as,  186 
Backward-looking  attitude  of  the 
intellect,  47,  48,  237  • 

Baldwin,  J.  M.,  27  note 
Ballast  of  intelligence,  152,  230, 
239,  369-70 
Bastian,  212  note 
Bateson,  63 

Becoming,  164,  236,  248-9,  273, 

299-304,  307-8,  313-4,  316,  337- 

8,  342-3,  345,  363 

in  ancient  philosophy,  313-4, 
317 

in  Descartes’s  philosophy,  346 
in  Eleatic  philosophy,  313-4,  315 
in  general,  or  abstract  becom- 
ing, 304,  306-7 

instantaneous  and  static  views 
of,  272,  304-5 

states  of,  falsely  so  called,  164, 
247-8,  273,  298-301,  307-8 
in  the  successors  of  Kant,  363. 
See  Change,  iNew,  Duration, 
Time,  Views  of  reality 
Bees,  101,  140,  142,  146,  166,  172 
Beethoven,  224 
Berthold,  34  note 
Bethe,  176  note 

Bifurcations  of  tendency,  54.  See 
Divergent  lines  of  evolution 
Biology,  12,  25,  26,  31-2,  43,  168- 

9,  1/4-6,  194-6 
evolutionist,  168-9 

and  philosophy,  43,  194-6 
and  physico-chemistry,  26 
Blaringhem,  85 

Bodies,  156,  188,  189,  300-1,  360. 
See  Inert  matter  as  a relaxa- 
tion of  the  unextended  into 
the  extended 

defined  as  bundles  of  qualities. 
349 

Bois-Reymond  (Du),  38 
Boltzmann,  245 

Bombines,  social  instincts  in,  171 
Bouvier,  142  note 
Bow,  strain  of,  illustrating  indi- 
visibility of  motion,  308-10 
Brain  and  consciousness,  5,  109, 
110,  179-80,  183-4,  212  note, 
252,  261-4,  270,  354,  356,  366. 
See  Nervous  System 


INDEX 


375 


Brain  (Continued) 

In  man  and  lower  animals,  183, 
184,  263-5 
Brandt,  66  note 

Breast-plate,  in  reference  to  ani- 
mal mobility,  130,  131.  See 
Carapace,  Cellulose  envelope 
Brown-Sequard,  80-2 
Bulb,  medullary,  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  nervous  system. 
110,  252 

Busquet,  259  note 
Butschli,  33  note 
Buttel-Reepen,  171  note 
Butterflies,  in  illustration  of  va- 
riation from  evolutionary 
type,  72 

Caelo  (De),  of  Aristotle,  322  note, 
324  note 

Calcareous  sheath,  in  reference 
to  animal  mobility,  130-1 
Calkins,  16  note 

Canal,  in  illustration  of  the  rela- 
tion of  function  and  struc- 
ture, 93 

Canalization,  in  illustration  of 
the  function  of  animal  organ- 
isms, 93,  95,  110,  126,  256,  270 
Canvas,  embroidering  “some- 
thing” on  the,  of  “nothing” 
297 

Caprice,  an  attribute  not  of  free- 
dom but  of  mechanism,  47 
Carapace,  in  reference  to  animal 
mobility,  130-1 

Carbohydrates,  in  reference  to 
the  function  of  the  animal  or- 
ganism, 121-2 

Carbon,  in  reference  to  the  func- 
tion of  organisms,  107,  113, 
114,  117,  254,  255 
Carbonic  acid,  in  reference  to  the 
function  of  organisms,  254, 
255 

Carnot,  243,  246,  256 
Cartesian  geometry,  compared 
with  ancient.  334 
Cartesianism,  345,  356,  358 
Cartesians,  358.  See  Spinoza, 
Leibniz 

Carving,  the,  of  matter  by  intel- 
lect, 155 

Categorical  propositions,  charac- 
teristic of  instinctive  know- 
ledge. 149-50 

Categories,  conceptual,  x,  xiii, 
48,  147,  148-9,  165,  189-90,  195- 
7,  207,  220-1,  257-60,  265,  358, 


Categories  (Continued) 

361.  See  Concept  deduction 
of,  and  genesis  of  the  intel- 
lect, 196,  207,  359.  See  Gene- 
sis of  matter  and  of  the  intel- 
lect 

innate,  147,  148-9 
misfit  for  the  vital,  x,  xiii,  48, 
165,  195-9,  220-1,  257-9 
in  reference  to  the  adaptation 
to  each  other  of  the  matter 
and  form  of  knowledge,  361 
Cats,  in  illustration  of  the  law  of 
correlation,  67 

Causal  relation  in  Aristotle,  325 
between  consciousness  and 
movement.  111 
in  Greek  philosophy,  324-5 
Causality,  mechanical,  a cate- 
gory which  does  not  apply  to 
life,  X,  xiv,  177 

in  the  philosophy  of  Ideas,  323-6 
Causation  and  adaptation,  101, 
102 

final,  involves  mechanical,  44 
Cause  and  effect  as  mathemati- 
cal functions  of  each  other, 
20,  21 

efficient,  238,  277,  323 
efficient,  in  Aristotle’s  philoso- 
phy, 324 

efficient,  in  Leibniz’s  philoso- 
phy, 353 

final,  40,  44,  238 
final,  in  Aristotle’s  philoso- 
phy, 324 

by  impulsion,  release  and  un- 
winding, 73 

mechanical,  as  containing  ef- 
fect, 14,  233,  269 
in  the  vital  order,  95,  164 
Cave,  Plato’s  allegory  of  the,  191 
Cell,  16,  24,  33,  162,  166,  167,  260, 
269 

as  artificial  construct,  162 
in  the  “colonial  theory,”  260 
division,  16,  24,  33 
instinct  in  the,  166,  167 
in  relation  to  the  soul,  269 
Cellulose  envelope  in  reference  to 
vegetable  immobility  and  tor- 
por, 108,  111,  130 
Cerebral  activity  and  conscious- 
ness, 5.  109-10,  180-1,  183-4, 
212  note,  252,  253,  261,  264, 
268,  270,  350,  351,  354,  355,  366 
mechanism,  5,  252,  253,  262,  264, 
366 

Cerebro-spinal  system,  124.  See 


376 


INDEX 


Nervous  system 

Certainty  of  induction,  215, 
216 

Chance  analogous  to  disorder, 
233,  234.  See  Affection 
In  evolution,  86-7,  104,  114-5, 
126,  169-70,  171,  252,  254,  255, 
266,  267,  326-7.  See  Indeter- 
mination 

Change,  1,  7-8,  18,  85-6,  248,  275, 
294,  300-304,  308,  313-4,  317, 
326,  328-9,  343-4,  344-5 
in  ancient  philosophy,  313-4, 
316-7,  325-6,  327-9,  343,  345 
in  Eleatic  philosophy,  314 
kpown  only  from  within,  307-8 
Chaos,  232.  See  Disorder 
Character,  moral,  5,  99-100 
Charrin,  81  note 
Chemistry,  27,  34-6,  55,  72,  74, 
98,  194,  226,  256,  260 
Child,  intelligence  in,  147-8 
adolescence  of,  in  illustration 
of  evolutionary  becoming, 
311-3 

Chipped  stone,  in  paleontology, 
139 

Chlorophyllian  function,  107-9, 
114,  117,  246,  253 
Choice,  110,  125,  143-5,  179,  180, 
252,  260-4,  276,  366 
and  consciousness,  110,  179, 

260-4 

Chrysalis,  114  note 
Cinematograph,  306-7,  339-40 
Cinematographical  character  of 
ancient  philosophy,  315-6 
of  intellectual  knowledge,  306, 
307,  312-8,  323-4,  331-3,  346 
of  language,  306-7,  312-5 
of  modem  science,  329-31,  336- 
7,  341-3,  345,  346,  347 
Circle  of  the  given,  broken  by 
action,  192,  247 
logical  and  physical,  277 
vicious,  in  intellectualist  phi- 
losophy, 193,  197,  320 
vicious,  in  the  intuitional 
method  is  only  apparent,  192, 
193 

Circularity  of  God’s  thought  in 
Aristotle’s  philosophy,  324 
of  each  special  evolution,  128 
Circulation,  protoplasmic,  imi- 
tated. 32-3 

in  plants  and  animals,  108 
Circumstances  in  the  determina- 
tion of  evolution,  101-2,  128- 
9,  133,  138,  142,  150-1,  167, 


Circumstances  {Continued) 

168,  170-1,  193,  194,  252,  256 
in  relation  to  special  instincts, 
138,  168,  193 

Classes  of  words  corresponding 
to  the  three  kinds  of  repre- 
sentation, 303-4 
Clausius,  243 

Clearness  characteristic  of  intel- 
lect, 160 

Cleft  between  the  organized  and 
the  unorganized,  190,  196-9 

Climbing  plants,  instincts  of,  170 
note 

Coincidence  of  matter  with  space 
as  in  Kant,  206,  207,  244 
of  mind  with  intellect  as  in 
Kant,  48,  206 
of  qualities,  216 
of  seeing  and  willing,  237 
of  self  with  self,  definition  of 
the  feeling  of  duration,  199- 
200 

Coleopter,  instinct  in,  146 
Colonial  theory,  259,  260 
Colonies,  microbial,  259 
Color  variation  in  lizards,  72,  74 
Coming  and  going  of  the  mind 
between  the  without  and  the 
within  gives  rise  to  the  idea 
of  “Nothing,”  279 
between  nature  and  mind,  the 
true  method  of  philosophy, 
239 

Common-sense,  29,  153,  161,  213, 
224,  277 

defined  as  continuous  experi- 
ence of  the  real,  213 
Comparison  of  ancient  philosophy 
with  modern,  226,  228-9,  232, 
328-9,  345-6,  349-51,  353-4, 

356 

Compenetration,  352-3.  See  In- 
terpenetration 

Complementarity  of  forms 
evolved,  xii,  xiii,  51,  101,  103, 
113,  116-7,  135,  136,  254,  255 
of  instinct  and  intelligence,  146, 
173.  See  Opposition  of  In- 
stinct and  Intelligence 
of  intuition  and  intellect,  343, 
345 

in  the  powers  of  life,  49,  96-7, 
140-3,  177,  178-9,  183-5,  239, 
246,  254,  343 

of  science  and  metaphysics,  344, 
Complexity  of  the  order  of  math- 
ematics, 208-10,  217,  251 


INDEX 


377 


Compound  reflex,  instinct  as  a, 
174 

Concentration,  intellect  as,  191, 
301 

of  personality,  198-9,  201 
Concentric  spheres  in  Aristotle’s 
philosophy,  328 

Concept  accessory  to  action,  ix, 
analogy  of,  with  the  solid  body, 
ix 

in  animals,  187 

externality  of,  160,  168,  175-8, 
199-200,  251,  306,  311,  314 
fringed  about  with  intuition,  46 
and  image  distinguished,  160, 
279 

impotent  to  grasp  life,  ix-xiii, 
49 

intellect  the  concept-making 
faculty,  vi,  49 
misfit  for  the  vital,  48 
representation  of  the  act  by 
which  the  intellect  is  fixed  on 
things,  161 

synthesis  of,  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, 325-6,  356.  See  Cate- 

gories, Externality,  Frames, 
Image,  Space,  Symbol 
Conditions,  external,  in  evolution, 
128-9,  133,  138,  141-2,  150-1, 
166-7,  168,  170,  193,  194,  251, 
256,  257 

external,  in  determination  of 
special  instinct,  141-2,  150-1, 
167,  168,  171 

Conduct,  mechanism  and  finality 
in  the  evolution  of,  47.  See 
Freedom,  Determination,  In- 
determination 

Confused  plurality  of  life,  257 
Conjugation  of  Infusoria,  16 
Consciousness  and  action,  ix,  5, 
144,  145,  179-80,  207,  260-1 
consciousness  as  appendage  to 
action,  ix 

consciousness  as  arithmetical 
difference  between  possible 
and  real  activity,  145 
consciousness  as  auxiliary  to 
action,  179-80 

consciousness  as  inadequacy 
of  act  to  representation,  144 
consciousness  as  instrument  of 
action,  180 

consciousness  as  interval  be- 
tween possible  and  real  ac- 
tion, 145,  179 

consciousness  as  light  from 
zone  of  possible  actions  sur- 


Consciousness  {Continued) 
rounding  the  real  act,  179 
consciousness  and  locomotion, 
262 

consciousness  plugged  up  by 
action,  144,  145.  See  Torpor, 
Sleep 

consciousness  as  sketch  of  ac- 
tion, 207 

intensity  of,  varies  with  ratio 
of  possible  to  real  action, 
145 

Consciousness  in  animals,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  con- 
sciousness of  plants,  130,  135- 
6,  143 

as  distinguished  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  man,  139-43, 

180,  183,  184,  187,  188,  212, 

263-9.  See  Torpor,  Sleep 

characteristic  of  animals,  tor- 
por of  plants,  109,  111,  113, 
120,  128-9,  135-6,  181,  182,  292 
as  background  of  instinct  and 
intelligence,  186 
and  brain,  180,  262,  263,  269, 
270,  354 

and  choice,  110,  144-5,  179,  262-4 
coextensive  with  universal  life, 
186,  270 

and  creation,  consciousness  as 
demand  for  creation,  261 
current  of,  penetrating  matter, 

181,  270 

as  deficiency  of  instinct,  145 
in  dog  and  man,  180 
double  form  of,  179 
function  of,  207 
as  hesitation  or  choice,  143,  144 
imprisonment  of,  180,  183-4,  264 
as  invention  and  freedom,  264, 
270 

in  man  as  distinguished  from, 
in  lower  forms  of  life,  180, 
263,  264,  267,  268 
and  matter,  179,  181-2 
as  motive  principle  of  evolu- 
tion, 181-2 

nullified,  as  distinguished  from 
the  absence  of  consciousness, 
143 

and  the  organism,  270 
in  plants,  131,  135-6,  143 
as  world  principle,  237,  261 
Conservation  of  energy,  243,  244 
Construction,  139-42,  150-1,  156, 

157-8,  180,  182.  See  Manufac- 
ture, Solid 

the  characteristic  work  of  in- 


378 


INDEX 


Construction  (Continued) 
tellect,  163-4 

as  the  method  of  Kant’s  suc- 
cessors, 364-5 

Contingency,  96,  255,  268.  See 
Accident,  Chance 
the,  of  order,  231,  235 
Continuation  of  vital  process  in 
instinct,  138,  139,  166,  167,  246. 
See  Variations,  Vital  process 
Continuity,  1,  26,  29-30,  37,  138- 
40,  154,  162-4,  258,  302,  306-7, 
311-2,  321,  325-6,  329-30,  347 
of  becoming,  306-7,  312 
of  change,  325-6 
of'' evolution,  18,  19 
of  extension,  154 
of  germinative  plasma,  26,  37 
of  instinct  with  vital  process, 
139,  140,  166-7,  246 
of  life,  1-11,  29,  163-4,  258 
of  living  substance,  162 
of  psychic  life,  1,  30 
of  the  real,  302,  329-30 
of  sensible  intuition  with  ultra- 
intellectual, 361 
of  sensible  universe,  346 
Conventionality  of  science,  207 
"Conversion”  and  “procession”  in 
Alexandrian  philosophy,  323 
Cook,  Plato’s  comparison  of  the, 
and  the  dialectician,  156 
Cope,  35  note,  77,  111 
Correlation,  law  of,  66,  67 
Correspondence  between  mind 
and  matter  in  Spencer,  368. 
See  Simultaneity 
Cortical  mechanism,  252,  253,  262. 

See  Cerebral  mechanism 
Cosmogony,  and  genesis  of  mat- 
ter, 188.  See  Genesis  of  mat- 
ter and  of  intellect,  Spencer 
Cosmology  the,  that  follows  from 
the  philosophy  of  Ideas,  315, 
328 

as  reversed  psychology,  208 
Counterweight  representation  as, 
to  action,  145 

Counting  simultaneities,  the 
measurement  of  time  is,  338, 
341-2 

Creation,  xi,  7,  11,  12,  22,  29,  30, 
45,  93,  100,  101,  103,  105,  108, 
114,  128-31,  161,  163-4,  178, 

200,  217,  218,  223,  226,  230,  237- 
40,  261,  270,  275,  339-40 
in  Descartes’s  philosophy,  345 
of  intellect,  248-9 
of  matter,  237,  239,  247-8,  249. 


Creation  (Continued) 

See  Materiality  the  inversion 
of  spirituality 

of  present  by  past,  5,  20-3,  27, 
167,  199-202 
the  vital  order  as,  230 
Creative  evolution,  7,  15,  21,  27, 
29,  36,  37,  65,  100,  104-5,  161, 
163,  223-4,  230-1,  237,  264,  269 
Creativeness  of  free  action,  192, 
243 

of  invention,  250 
Creeping  plants  in  illustration  of 
vegetable  mobility,  108 
Cricket  victim  of  paralyzing  in- 
stinct of  sphex,  172 
Criterion,  quest  of  a,  53  ff. 

of  evolutionary  rank,  133,  265 
Criticism,  Kantian,  205,  287  note, 
356,  360-2 

of  knowledge,  194-5 
Cross-cuts  through  becoming  by 
intellect,  314.  See  Views  of 
reality 

through  matter  by  perception, 
206 

Cross-roads  of  vital  tendency,  51, 
52,  54,  110,  126 
Crustacea,  19,  111,  129-30 
Crystal  illustrating  (by  contrast) 
individuation,  12 
Cu6not,  79  note 

Culminating  points  of  evolution- 
ary progress,  50,  133-5.  See 
Evolutionary  superiority 
Current,  26,  27,  51,  185,  236,  237, 
250,  266,  269 

Currents,  antagonistic,  250 
of  existence,  185 
of  life  penetrating  matter,  26, 
27,  266,  270 

vital,  26,  27,  51,  237,  266,  270 
of  will  penetrating  matter,  237 
Curves,  as  symbol  of  life,  32,  90, 
213 

Cuts  through  becoming  by  the  in- 
tellect, 313-4.  See  Views  of 
reality.  Snapshots  in  illustra- 
tion, etc. 

through  matter  by  perception, 
206 

Cuvier,  125  note 

Dantec  (Le),  18  note,  34  note 
Darwin,  62-5.  66,  72,  108,  170  note 
Darwinism,  56,  85,  86 
Dastre,  36  note 

Dead,  the,  is  the  object  of  in- 
tellect, 165 


INDEX 


379 


Dead-locks  in  speculation,  155, 
312 

Death,  246  note,  271 
Declivity  descended  by  matter, 
208,  246,  256,  339-40.  See  De- 
scending movement 
Decomposing  and  recomposing 
powers  characteristic  of  in- 
tellect, 157,  251 

Deduction,  analogy  between,  re- 
lated to  moral  sphere  and 
tangent  to  curve,  213 
and  astronomy,  213 
duration  refractory  to,  213 
geometry  the  ideal  limit  of,. 

213-26,  361 
in  animals,  212 

inverse  to  positive  spiritual  ef- 
fort, 212 
nature  of,  211 
physics  and,  213 
weakness  of,  in  psychology  and 
moral  science,  213 
Defence  and  attack  in  evolution, 
132 

Deficiency  of  will  the  negative 
condition  of  mathematical 
order  and  complexity,  209 
Definition  in  the  realm  of  life, 
13,  105,  106 
Degenerates,  133-5 
Degenerescence  senile  (La),  by 
Metchnikoff,  18  note 
Degradation  of  energy,  241,  242, 
246 

of  the  extra-spatial  into  the 
spatial,  207 

of  the  ideas  into  the  sensible 
flux  in  ancient  philosophy, 
317-9,  324-5,  327-9,  331,  343, 
345,  352-3 

Degrees  of  being  in  the  succes- 
sors of  Kant,  362-3 
Degrees  of  reality  in  Greek  phi- 
losophy, 324,  327 
Delage,  59  note,  81  note,  260  note 
Delamare,  81  note 
Deliberation,  144 
De  Manac^ine,  124  note 
Deposit,  instinct  and  intelligence 
as  deposits,  emanations,  is- 
sues, or  aspects  of  life,  x,  xii, 
xiii,  49,  103,  105,  136,  365 
De  Saporta,  107  note 
Descartes,  280,  334,  345,  346,  353,  358 
becoming,  345-6 
creation,  346 
determinism,  345 
duration,  346 


Descartes  (Continued) 
freedom,  345,  346 
geometry,  334 
God,  346 

image  and  idea  or  concept,  281 
indeterminism,  345 
mechanism,  345,  346 
motion,  346 

vacillation  between  abstract 
time  and  real  duration,  345 

Descending  movement  of  exist- 
ence, 11,  202,  203,  208,  271, 
275,  369 

Design,  motionless,  of  action  the 
object  of  intellect,  154-5,  299, 
301-2,  303 

Detention  in  the  dream  state,  202 
of  intuition  in  intellect,  238 

Determination,  76-7,  129-30,  223, 
246 

Determinism,  217,  264,  345,  348. 
See  Inert  matter.  Geometry 
in  Descartes,  345 

Development,  133,  134-5,  141.  See 
Order,  Progress,  Evolution, 
Superiority 

Deviation  from  type,  82-4 

Dialect  and  intuition  in  philoso- 
phy, 238 

Dichotomy  of  the  real  in  modern 
philosophy,  350 

Differentiation  of  parts  in  an  or- 
ganism, 253,  260 

Dilemma  of  any  systematic  meta- 
physics, 195,  197,  230 

Diminution,  derivation  of  becom- 
ing from  being  by,  in  ancient 
philosophy,  316,  317,  322,  323- 
4,  327-8,  343-5,  352 
geometrical  order  as,  or  lower 
complication  of  the  vital  or- 
der, 236 

Dionaea  illustrating  certain  ani- 
mal characteristics  in  plants, 
107,  108,  109 

Discontinuity  of  action,  154,  306-7 
of  attention,  2 

of  extension  relative  to  action, 
154,  163 

of  knowledge,  306 
of  living  substance,  163 
a positive  idea,  154 

Discontinuous  the  object  of  in- 
tellect, 154 

Discord  in  nature,  127,  128,  254-5, 
267 

Disorder,  40,  104,  222-3,  225-6, 

232-5,  274.  See  Expectation, 
Order,  mathematical.  Orders 


380 


INDEX 


of  reality,  two 

Disproportion  between  an  inven- 
tion and  its  consequences,  182 
Dissociation  as  a cosmic  principie 
opposed  to  association,  260 
of  tendencies,  54,  89,  135,  254, 
255,  257,  258.  See  Divergent 
lines  of  evolution 
Distance,  extension  as  the,  be- 
tween what  is  and  what 
ought  to  be,  318-9,  327-8,  331 
Distinct  multiplicity  in  the  dream 
state,  201,  210 
of  the  inert,  257 

Distinctness  characteristic  of  the 
intellect,  160,  237,  251 
characteristic  of  perception, 
227  251 

as  spatiality,  203,  207-8,  244, 

250 

Divergent  lines  of  evolution,  xii, 
54,  55,  87,  97-101,  103-4,  106, 
107,  109,  112,  113,  116,  119, 
130,  132,  134-5,  142,  149,  150, 
168,  173,  181,  254,  255,  266,  267. 
See  Dissociation  of  tenden- 
cies, Complementarity,  etc.. 
Schisms  in  the  primitive  im- 
pulsion of  life 

Diversity,  sensible,  205,  220-1, 

231,  235,  236 

Divination,  instinct  as,  176.  See 
Sympathy,  etc. 

Divisibility  of  extension,  154,  162 
Divison  as  function  of  intellect, 
152,  154,  162-3,  189 
of  labor,  99,  110,  118,  157,  166, 
260 

of  labor  in  cells,  166 
Dog  and  man,  consciousness  in, 
180 

Dogmatism  of  the  ancient  episte- 
mology contrasted  with  the 
relativism  of  the  modern,  230 
of  Leibniz  and  Spinoza,  356-7 
skepticism,  and  relativism,  196- 
7,  230 

Dogs  and  the  law  of  correlation, 
66 

Domestication  of  animals  and 
heredity,  80 

Dominants  of  Reinke,  42  note 
Dorfmeister,  72 

Dream,  144,  180-1,  202,  209,  256. 
See  Interpenetration,  Relaxa- 
tion, Detention,  Recollection 
as  relaxation,  202 
Driesch,  42  note 
Drosera,  107,  108,  109 


Dufourt,  124  note 
Duhem,  242  note 
Dunan,  Ch.,  xv  note 
Duration  xiv  note,  2,  4-6,  8-11, 
15,  17,  21,  22,  37,  39,  46,  51, 
199,  201,  206,  213,  216,  240, 
272,  273,  276,  298-9,  308-9,  317- 
8,  319  note,  324,  328,  332,  339, 
342,  343,  345,  354,  361,  363-4 
absoluteness  of,  206 
and  deduction,  213 
in  Descartes’s  philosophy,  346 
gnawing  of,  4,  8,  46 
indivisibility  of,  6,  308-9 
and  induction,  216 
and  the  inert,  343-4 
in  the  philosophy  of  the  Ideas, 
316-7,  319  note,  324,  327,  328-9 
rhythm  of,  11,  128,  346.  See 
Creation,  Evolution,  Inven- 
tion, Time,  Unforeseeable- 
ness, Uniqueness 

Echinoderms  in  reference  to  ani- 
mal mobility,  130,  131 
Efficient  cause  in  conception  of 
chance,  234 
Spinoza  and,  269 
Effort  in  evolution,  170 
Eidos  314-5 
Eimer,  55,  72,  73,  86 
Elaborateness  of  the  mathemati- 
cal order,  208-10,  217,  251 
Eleatic  philosophy,  308,  314-5 
Emanation,  logical  thought  an, 
issue,  aspect  or  deposit  of 
life,  ix,  xii,  xiii,  49 
Embroidering  “something”  on 
the  canvas  of  “nothing,”  297 
Embroidery  by  descendants  on 
the  canvas  handed  down  by 
ancestors,  23 

Embryo,  18,  19,  26,  27,  75,  81,  89, 
101,  166 

Embryogeny,  comparative,  and 
transformism,  25 
Embryonic  life,  27,  166 
Empirical  study  of  evolution  the 
centre  of  the  theory  of  know- 
ledge and  of  the  theory  of 
life,  178 

theories  of  knowledge,  205 
Empty,  thinking  the  full  by 
means  of  the  empty,  273-4 
End  in  Eleatic  philosophy,  314-5 
of  science  is  practical  utility, 
329 

Energy,  115-7,  120-3,  242,  243, 

245,  246,  252-5,  256,  257,  262 


INDEX 


381 


Energy  {Continued) 
conservation  of,  242 
degradation  of,  242,  243,  246 
solar,  stored  by  plants,  released 
by  animals,  245,  254 
Enneadae  of  Plotinus,  210  note 
Entelechy  of  Driesch,  42  note 
Entropy,  243 

Environment  in  evolution,  129, 
133,  138,  140,  142,  150,  167, 
168,  170,  192,  193,  252,  256,  257 
and  special  instincts,  138,  168, 
192,  193 

Epiphenomenalism,  262 
Essence  and  accidents  in  Aris- 
totle’s philosophy,  353 
or  form  in  Eleatic  philosophy, 
314-5 

the  meaning  of,  302-3 
Essences  (or  forms),  qualities 
and  acts,  the  three  kinds  of 
representation,  303-4 
Eternity,  39,  298,  314,  317,  320, 
324,  328,  346,  352,  354 
in  the  philosophy  of  Ideas,  316- 
7,  319,  324,  328 
in  Spinoza’s  philosophy,  353 
Euglena,  116 
Evellin,  311  note 
Eventual  actions,  11,  96.  See 

Possible  activity 
Evolution,  ix-xv,  18,  20,  22,  24, 
25,  26-7,  37,  46-55,  63,  68,  79 
note,  84-8,  97-105,  107,  113, 

116,  126,  127,  129-30,  131-2, 

133,  134,  136,  138-40,  141-2, 

143,  161,  166,  167,  168-72,  173, 
174,  175,  179,  181,  182,  185,  186, 
190,  193,  198-9,  207-8,  224  231, 
242  note,  246,  248,  249,  251, 
252,  254,  264-6,  268,  273,  302, 
311,  345,  359,  360,  366 
accident  in,  104,  169,  170,  173, 
174,  251,  252 

animal,  a progress  toward  mo- 
bility, 131 

antagonistic  tendencies  in,  103, 
113,  185 

automatic  and  determinate,  is 
action  being  undone,  248 
blind  alleys  of,  129 
circularity  of  each  special,  128 
complementarity  of  the  diver- 
gent lines  of,  97-102,  103,  116 
conceptually  inexpressible,  49, 
50,  52,  53,  127,  181,  273 
continuity  of,  18,  19,  26,  37,  46, 
273,  302,  312,  345 
creative,  7,  15,  21,  27,  30,  36,  37, 


Evolution,  {Continued) 

65,  100,  105,  161,  162,  163,  223, 
230,  238,  264,  269 
culminating  points  of,  50,  133, 
174,  185,  265,  266.  268 
development  by,  133,  134,  141-2 
divergent  lines  of,  xii,  53,  54, 
87,  97-101,  103-4,  107,  173-4, 
246 

and  duration,  20,  22,  37,  45-6 
empirical  study  of,  the  centre 
of  the  theory  of  knowledge 
and  of  life,  178 

and  environment,  101-3,  129, 

133,  138,  142  150,  167,  168,  169, 
192,  193,  251,  256,  257 
of  instinct,  170,  171,  174-5.  See 
Divergent  lines,  etc..  Culmi- 
nating points,  etc..  Evolution 
and  environment 
of  intellect,  x-xii,  153,  186,  189- 
90,  193,  198-9,  207-8,  359,  360. 
See  Divergent  lines,  etc..  Cul- 
minating points,  etc..  Genesis 
of  matter  and  of  intellect 
as  invention,  344 
of  man,  264,  266,  268.  See  Cul- 
minating points,  etc. 
motive  principle  of,  is  con- 
sciousness, 181 

of  species  product  of  the  vital 
impetus  opposed  by  matter, 
247-8,  254 

and  transformism,  24 
unforeseeable,  47,  48,  53,  86, 

224 

variation  in,  23-4,  55,  63,  68,  72 
note,  85,  131,  137-8,  167,  169, 
171,  264 

Evolutionary,  qualitative,  and 
extensive  motion  302-3,  311, 
312 

superiority,  133-5,  174-5.  See 
Success,  Criterion  of  evolu- 
tionary rank.  Culminating 
points,  etc. 

Evolutionism,  x-xii,  xiv,  77,  84, 
364 

Exhaustion  of  the  mutability  of 
the  universe,  337-8 

Existence,  logical,  as  contrasted 
with  psychical  and  physical, 
276,  362 

of  matter  tends  toward  instan- 
taneity,  201 

of  self  means  change,  1 ff. 
superaddition  of,  upon  nothing- 
ness. 276 

Expectation,  214-6,  221,  222,  226, 


382 


INDEX 


Expectation  (Continued) 

233,  235,  274,  281,  292 
in  conception  of  disorder,  221, 
222,  226,  233,  234,  235,  274 
in  conception  of  void  or  naught, 
282,  292 

Experience,  138,  147,  177,  197,  204, 
229,  321,  354,  359,  363,  368 

Explosion,  illustrating  cause  by 
release,  73 

Explosive  character  of  animal 
energy,  116,  119,  120,  246 
of  organization,  92 

Explosives,  manufacture  of,  by 
plants  and  use  by  animals, 
:^46,  254 

Extension,  149,  154,  161,  202,  203, 
207,  211,  223,  236,  245,  318-20, 
324,  327,  351,  352 
continuity  of,  154 
discontinuity  of,  relative  to  ac- 
tion, 154,  162 

as  the  distance  between  what 
is  and  what  ought  to  be,  318 
divisibility  of,  154,  162 
the  most  general  property  of 
matter,  154,  250,  251 
the  inverse  movement  to  ten- 
sion, 245 

of  knowledge,  150 
in  Leibniz’s  philosophy,  351, 
352 

of  matter  in  space,  204,  211 
in  the  philosophy  of  Ideas,  318- 
9,  323-4,  327 

and  relaxation,  202,  207,  209, 

211,  212,  218,  223,  245 
in  Spinoza’s  philosophy,  350 
in  the  Transcendental  Aes- 
thetic, 203 
unity  of,  158-9 

as  weakening  of  the  essence  of 
being,  in  Plotinus,  210  note 

Extensive,  evolutionary  and 
qualitative  motion,  302-3,  311, 
312 

External  conditions  in  evolution, 
128,  133,  137,  141-2,  150-1,  167, 
168,  170,  192,  193,  252,  256,  257 
finality,  41 

Externality  of  concepts,  160,  168, 
174,  177,  199,  251,  305,  311-4 
the  most  general  property  of 
matter,  154,  250,  251 

Externalized  action  in  distinction 
from  internalized,  147,  165. 

See  Somnambulism,  etc., 
Automatic  activity,  etc. 

Eye  of  mollusc  and  vertebrate 


compared,  60,  76,  77,  84,  86, 
87-8 

Fabre,  172  note 
Fabrication.  See  Construction 
Fallacies,  two  fundamental,  272 
273 

Fallacy  of  thinking  being  by  not- 
being,  276,  277,  284,  297-8 
of  thinking  the  full  by  the  emp^ 
ty,  273-5 

of  thinking  motion  by  the 
motionless,  272,  273,  297-8, 

307-8,  309-14 

Fallibility  of  instinct,  172-3 
Falling  back  of  matter  upon  con- 
sciousness, 264 

bodies,  comparison  of  Aristotle 
and  Galileo,  228,  331-2,  334 
weight,  figure  of  material 
world,  245,  246 

Familiar,  the,  is  the  object  of  in- 
tellect, 163,  164,  199,  270 
Faraday,  203 

Fasting,  in  reference  to  primacy 
of  nervous  system  over  the 
other  physiological  systems, 
124 

Fauna,  menace  of  torpor  in 
primitive,  130 

Feeling  in  the  conception  of 
chance,  207 

and  instinct,  143,  174-5 
Fencing-master,  illustrating  he- 
reditary transmission,  79 
Ferments,  certain  characteristics 
of,  106 

Fertilization  of  orchids  by 
insects,  by  Darwin,  170 
note 

Fichte’s  conception  of  the  intel- 
lect, 189-90,  357 

Filings,  iron,  in  illustration  of 
the  relation  of  structure  to 
function,  94,  95 

Film,  cinematographic,  figure  of 
abstract  motion,  304-6 
Final  cause,  40,  45,  234,  325 
conception  of,  involves  con- 
ception of  mechanical  cause, 
44 

God  as,  in  Aristotle,  322-3 
Finalism,  39-53,  58,  74,  88-97,  101- 
5,  126-8 

Finality,  41,  164,  177-8,  185,  223, 

224,  266 

external  and  internal,  41 
misfit  for  the  vital,  177,  223-4, 

225,  266 


INDEX 


383 


Finality  {Continued) 

and  the  unforeseeableness  of 
life,  164,  185 
Fischel,  75  note 

Fish  in  illustration  of  animal 
tendency  to  mobility,  130,  131 
Fixation  of  nutritive  elements, 
107-9,  113,  117,  246,  247,  253 
Fixity,  108-13,  118,  119,  130,  155. 
See  Torpor 

apparent  or  relative,  155 
cellulose  envelope  and  the,  of 
plants,  108,  111,  130 
of  extension,  155 
of  plants,  108-13,  118,  119,  130-1 
of  torpid  animals,  130 
Flint  hatchets  and  human  intel- 
ligence, 137 

Fluidity  of  life,  153,  165,  193 
of  matter  as  a whole,  186,  369 
Flux  of  material  bodies,  265 
of  reality,  250,  251,  337,  342, 
344 

Flying  arrow  of  Zeno,  308,  309, 
310 

Focalization  of  personality,  201 
Food,  106-9,  113-4,  117,  120,  121, 
246,  247,  254 

Foraminifera,  failure  of  certain, 
to  evolve,  197 

Force,  126-7,  141,  149,  150,  175, 
246,  254,  339 

life  a,  inverse  to  matter,  246 
limitedness  of  vital  force,  126, 
127,  141,  149,  162 
time  as,  339-40 
Forel,  176  note 

Foreseeing,  8,  28,  29,  30,  37,  45,  47, 
96.  See  Unforeseeableness 
Form,  xi,  51,  101,  104,  113,  116-8, 
129,  135-6,  148-53,  155,  156, 
160,  164,  195-7,  222,  237,  250, 
255,  302,  303,  314,  317,  318,  322, 
341,  357,  359,  361,  362 
complementarity  of  forms 
evolved,  xi,  51,  101,  104,  113. 
116-8,  135-6,  255 
expansion  of  the  forms  of  con- 
sciousness, xii,  xiii 
(or  essences),  qualities  and 
acts  the  three  kinds  of  repre- 
sentation, 302-3 

God  as  pure  form  in  Aristotle, 
196,  322 

or  idea  in  ancient  philosophy, 
317,  318,  330 

of  intelligence,  xiv,  48,  147,  148, 
165,  190,  195,  196,  198,  207, 
219,  257-9,  266,  358-9,  361.  See 


Form  {Continued) 

Concept 

and  matter  in  creation,  239,  250 
and  matter  in  knowledge,  195, 
361 

a snapshot  view  of  transition, 
302 

Formal  knowledge,  152 
logic,  292 

Forms  of  sensibility,  361 

Fossil  species,  102 

Foster,  125  note 

Fox  in  illustration  of  animal  in- 
telligence, 138 

Frames  of  the  understanding,  46- 
7,  48,  150-2,  173,  177,  197-9, 
219-20,  223-4,  258,  270,  313, 

358,  364 

fit  the  inert,  197,  218 
inadequate  to  reality  entire,  364 
misfit  for  the  vital,  x,  xiii,  xiv, 
46,  48,  173,  177,  197-9,  223, 
258,  313 

product  of  life,  358 
transform  freedom  into  neces- 
sity, 270 

utility  of,  lies  in  their  unlimited 
application,  149-50,  152 

Freedom,  11,  48,  126,  130,  163, 
164,  200,  202,  207,  208,  217, 
223,  231,  237,  239,  247,  249, 
264-6,  269,  270,  277,  300,  339- 
41,  345,  346 

the  absolute  as  freely  acting, 
277 

affirmed  by  conscience,  269 
animal  characteristic  rather 
than  vegetable,  129-30 
caprice  attribute  not  of,  but  of 
mechanism,  47 

coextensiveness  of  conscious- 
ness with.  111,  112,  202,  264, 
270 

of  creation  and  life,  247,  254, 
255 

creativeness  of,  223,  239,  248 
in  Descartes’s  philosophy,  345, 
346 

as  efficient  causality,  277 
inversion  of  necessity,  236 
and  liberation  of  consciousness, 
265,  266.  See  Imprisonment 
of  consciousness 
and  novelty,  12,  163,  164,  200, 
218,  231,  239,  249,  270,  339-42 
order  in,  223 

property  of  every  organism, 
129-31 

relaxation  of,  into  necessity,  217 


384 


INDEX 


Freedom  {Continued) 

tendency  of,  to  self-negation  in 
habit,  127 

tension  of,  200,  201,  202,  207, 
223,  237,  301 

transformed  by  the  imder- 
standing  into  necessity,  270 
See  Spontaneity 

Fringe  of  intelligence  around  in- 
stinct, 136 

of  intuition  around  intellect, 
xii,  xiii,  46 

of  possible  action  around  real 
action,  179,  272 

Froth,  alveolar,  in  imitation  of 
''organic  phenomena,  33-4 
Full,  fallacy  of  thinking  the,  by 
the  empty,  273-6 
Function,  ix,  3,  5,  44,  46,  47,  88- 
90,  94,  95,  106-10,  113,  114,  117, 
120,  121,  127,  132,  140,  141,  145, 
152,  153,  157,  161,  163,  164,  168, 
173-5,  186-92,  199,  206,  207, 
233,  237,  246,  251,  254-6,  262, 
263,  270,  273,  298,  306,  346, 
358,  369 

accumulation  of  energy  the 
function  of  vegetable  organ- 
isms, 254,  255 

action  the,  of  intellect,  ix,  12, 
44,  47,  93,  161,  162,  186-8,  206, 
251,  273,  305 

action  the,  of  nervous  system, 
262,  263 

alimentation,  106,  107,  120,  121, 
246,  254 

of  animals  is  canalization  of 
energy,  93,  110,  126,  255,  256 
carbon  and  the,  of  organisms, 
107,  113,  114,  117,  254,  255 
chlorophyllian,  107-9,  114,  117, 
246,  254 

concept-making  the,  of  intel- 
lect, X,  49 

of  consciousness:  sketching 
movements,  207 

construction  the,  of  intellect^ 
108 

illumination  of  action,  of  per- 
ception, 5,  206,  307-8 
of  intelligence:  action,  ix,  12,  44, 
46,  93,  160,  162,  186-8,  206, 
251,  273,  307-8 

of  intelligence:  concept-making, 
X,  50 

of  intelligence:  construction, 
160,  163,  181-2 

of  intelligence:  division,  154, 
155,  162,  189 


Function  {Continued) 
of  intelligence:  illumination  of 
action  by  perception,  5,  206, 
301 

of  intelligence:  repetition,  164, 
199,  214-6 

of  intelligence:  retrospection, 
47,  237 

of  intelligence:  connecting  same 
with  same,  199,  233,  270 
of  intelligence:  scanning  the 
rhythm  of  the  universe,  346 
of  intelligence:  tactualizing  all 
perception,  168 

of  intelligence:  unification,  152, 
154,  357 

of  the  nervous  system:  action, 
262,  263 

and  organ,  88-90,  94,  95,  132-3, 
140,  141,  158,  See  Function 
and  structure 

and  organ  in  arthropods,  verte- 
brates and  man,  132-3 
of  the  organism,  94,  106-10,  112, 
114,  117,  120,  126,  173-5,  246, 
253-6 

of  the  organism,  alimentation, 
106,  107,  120,  121,  246,  254 
of  the  organism,  animal:  canal- 
ization of  energy,  93,  110,  126, 
255,  256 

of  the  organism,  carbon  in,  107, 
113,  114,  117,  254,  255 
of  the  organism,  chlorophyllian 
function,  107-9,  114,  117,  246, 
247,  254 

of  the  organism,  primary  func- 
tions of  life:  storage  and  ex- 
penditure of  energy,  254-6 
of  the  organism,  vegetable:  ac- 
cumulation of  energy,  254, 
255 

of  philosophy:  adoption  of  the 
evolutionary  movement  of 
life  and  consciousness,  370 
of  science,  168,  346 
sketching  movements  the,  of 
consciousness,  207 
and  structure,  55,  62,  66,  69,  74, 
75,  76,  86,  88-91,  93,  94,  96,  118, 
132,  140,  141,  158,  162,  250, 
252,  256 

tactualizing  all  perception  the, 
of  science,  168 

of  vegetable  organism:  accumu- 
lation of  energy,  254,  255 
Functions  of  life,  the  two:  stor- 
age and  expenditure  of  ener- 
gy, 254-6 


INDEX 


385 


Galileo,  homogeneity  of  time  in, 
332 

his  influence  on  metaphysics, 
20.  228 

his  influence  on  modern  science, 
334,  335 

extension  of  Galileo’s  physics, 
357,  370 

his  theory  of  the  fall  of  bodies 
compared  with  Aristotle’s, 
228,  331,  332,  334 
Ganoid  breastplate  of  ancient 
Ashes,  in  reference  to  animal 
mobility,  130,  131 
Gaudry,  130  note 
Genera,  relation  of,  to  individu- 
als, 226 

relation  of,  to  laws,  225,  226, 
330 

potential,  226-7 
and  signs,  158 

Generality,  ambiguity  of  the  idea 
of,  in  philosophy,  236,  229-31 
Generalization  dependent  on 
repetition,  230,  231 
distinguished  from  transference 
of  sign,  158 

in  the  vital  and  mathematical 
orders,  224,  225,  230 
Generic,  type  of  the:  similarity  of 
structure  between  generating 
and  generated,  223,  224 
Genesis,  xiii,  xiv,  153,  186-199, 

207,  359,  360 

of  intellect,  xiii,  xiv,  153,  186, 

187,  190,  193,  194,  196-7,  207, 
264,  360 

of  knowledge,  191 

of  matter,  xiii,  xiv,  153,  186, 

188,  190,  193,  199,  207,  360 
Genius  and  the  willed  order,  223, 

237 

Genus.  See  Genera 
Geometrical,  the,  is  the  object 
of  the  intellect,  190 
Geometrical  order  as  a diminu- 
tion or  lower  complication  of 
the  vital,  223,  225,  236,  330. 
See  Genera,  Relation  of,  to 
laws 

mutual  contingency  of,  and 
vital  order,  235 
See  Mathematical  order 
space,  relation  of,  to  the  spa- 
tiality  of  things,  203 
Geometrism,  the  latent,  of  intel- 
lect, 194,  211-3 

Geometry,  fitness  of,  to  matter, 
10 


Geometry,  (Continued) 
goal  of  intellectual  operations, 
211,  213,  218 

ideal  limit  of  induction  and  de- 
duction, 214-8,  361.  See 

Space,  Descending  movement 
of  existence 

modern,  compared  with  ancient, 

36,  161,  333-4 
natural,  194,  211-2 
perception  impregnated  with, 

205,  230 

reasoning  in,  contrasted  with 
reasoning  concerning  life,  7, 
8 

scientific,  161,  211 
Germ,  accidental  predisposition 
of,  in  Neo-Darwinism,  168, 
169,  170 

Germ-plasm,  continuity  of,  27, 

37,  78-83 
Giard,  84 

Glucose  in  organic  function,  122, 
123 

Glycogen  in  organic  function, 
122-4 

God,  as  activity,  249 

of  Aristotle,  196,  322,  325,  349, 
353,  356-7 

ascent  toward,  in  Aristotle’s 
philosophy,  322-3 
circularity  of  God’s  thought,  in 
Aristotle’s  philosophy,  324, 
325 

in  Descartes’s  philosophy,  346, 
347 

as  efficient  cause  in  Aristotle’s 
philosophy,  324 

as  hypostasis  of  the  unity  of 
nature,  196,  322,  357 
in  Leibniz’s  philosophy,  352, 
353,  356-7 

as  eternal  matter,  196-7 
as  pure  form,  196-7,  322 
in  Spinoza’s  philosophy,  351, 
357 

Greek  philosophy.  See  Ancient 
philosophy 

Green  parts  of  plants,  107-9,  114, 
117,  246,  247,  254 
Growing  old,  15 
Growth,  creation  is,  240-1,  275 
and  novelty,  231 
of  the  powers  of  life,  132,  134-5 
reality  is,  237 
of  the  universe,  343,  345 
Guerin,  P.,  59  note 
Guinea-pig,  in  illustration  of 
hereditary  transmission,  80,  81 


386 


INDEX 


Habit  and  consciousness  an- 
nulled, 143 

form  of  knowledge  a habit  or 
bent  of  attention,  148 
and  heredity,  78,  93,  169,  170, 
173.  See  Acquired  characters, 
inheritance  of 

instinct  as  an  intelligent,  173-4 
and  invention  in  animls,  264 
and  invention  in  man,  265 
tendency  of  freedom  to  self- 
negation in,  127-8 
Harmony  between  instinct  and 
life,  and  between  intelligence 
^and  the  inert,  187,  194-5,  198 
of  the  organic  world  is  comple- 
mentarity due  to  a common 
original  impulse  50,  51,  103, 
116,  118 

pre-established,  205,  206 
in  radical  finalism,  127-8.  See 
Discord 

Hartog,  60  note 

Hatchets,  ancient  flint,  and  hu- 
man intellect,  137 
Heliocentric  radius -vector  in 
Kepler’s  laws,  333-4 
Hereditary  transmission,  76-83, 
87,  168-9,  170,  173,  225-6,  230 
domestication  of  animals  and, 
80-1 

habit  and,  79,  83,  169,  170,  173 
Hesitation  or  choice,  conscious- 
ness as,  143,  144 

Heteroblastia  and  identical  struc- 
tures on  divergent  lines  of 
evolution,  75 
Heymons,  72  note 
History  as  creative  evolution,  6, 
15,  21,  26,  29,  36,  37,  65-6,  103- 
4,  105,  163,  264,  269 
of  philosophy,  238 
Hive  as  an  organism,  166 
Homo  faber,  designation  of  hu- 
man species,  139 
Homogeneity  of  space,  156,  212 
the  sphere  of  intellect,  163 
of  time  in  Galileo,  332 
Horse-fly  illustrating  the  object 
of  instinct,  146 
Houssay,  109  note 
Human  and  animal  attention,  184 
and  animal  brain,  184,  263-5 
and  animal  consciousness,  139- 
43,  180,  183,  184,  187,  188,  191, 
212,  263-8 

and  animal  instruments  of  ac- 
tion, 139-43,  150 
and  animal  intelligence,  138, 


Human  (Continued) 

187,  188,  191,  192,  212 
and  animal  Invention,  relation 
of,  to  habit,  264,  265 
intellect  and  language,  157-8 
Intellect  and  manufacture,  137, 
138 

Humanity  in  evolution,  134,  137-9, 
142,  147,  158,  181,  184,  185,  264- 
71.  See  Culminating  points, 
etc. 

goal  of  evolution,  266,  267 
Huxley,  38 

Hydra  and  individuality,  13 
DXt)  of  Aristotle,  353 
Hymenoptera,  the  culmination  of 
arthropod  and  instinctive 
evolution,  134,  173-4 
as  entomologists,  146,  172-3 
organization  and  instinct  in,  140 
paralyzing  instinct  of,  146,  172, 
173-4 

social  instincts  of,  101,  171 
Hypostasis  of  the  unity  of  na- 
ture, God  as,  196-7,  322,  356 
Hypothetical  propositions  charac- 
teristic of  intellectual  know- 
ledge, 149-50 

Idea  or  form  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, 49,  314,  316-7,  318,  329- 
30 

in  ancient  philosophy,  €?doS,  314-5 
in  ancient  philosophy,  Platonic, 
48 

and  image  in  Descartes,  280 
Idealism,  232 

Idealists  and  realists  alike  as^ 
sume  the  possibility  of  an  ab^ 
sence  of  order,  220,  232 
Identical  structures  in  divergent 
lines  of  evolution,  55,  60-1,  62, 
69,  74-7,  86,  119 

Illumination  of  action  the  func- 
tion of  perception,  5,  206,  307 
Image  and  idea  in  Descartes,  280 
distinguished  from  concept, 
160-1,  280 

Imitation  of  being  in  Greek  phi- 
losophy, 324,  327 
of  instinct  by  science,  168-9, 
173-4 

of  life  in  intellectual  represen- 
tation, 4,  33,  88-9,  101,  176, 
208,  209,  213,  226,  259,  341, 
365 

of  life  by  the  unorganized,  33, 
35,  36 


INDEX 


387 


Imitation  {Continued) 
of  motion  by  intelligence,  305, 
307-8,  312,  313,  329.  See  Imi- 
tation of  the  real,  etc. 
of  the  physical  order  by  the 
vital,  230 

of  the  real  by  intelligence,  258, 
270,  307 

Immobility  of  extension,  155 
and  plants,  108-13,  118,  119,  130 
of  primitive  and  torpid  ani- 
mals, 130-1 

relative  and  apparent;  mobility 
real,  155 

Impatience,  duration  as,  10,  339- 
40 

Impelling  cause,  73 
Impetus,  vital,  divergence  of,  26- 
7,  51-5,  97-105,  110,  118-9,  126- 
7,  131,  134-6,  257,  258,  266, 
270 

vital,  limitedness  of,  126,  141, 
148-9,  254 

vital,  loaded  with  matter,  239 
vital,  as  necessity  for  creation, 
252,  261 

vital,  transmission  of,  through 
organisms,  25,  27,  79,  85,  87,, 
88,  230,  231,  250,  251 
vital.  See  Impulse  of  life 
Implement,  the  animal,  is  natur- 
al: the  human,  artificial,  139- 
43 

artificial,  137-40,  150-1 
constructing,  function  of  intel- 
ligence, 159,  182-3 
life  known  to  intelligence  only 
as,  162 

matter  known  to  intelligence 
only  as,  161,  198 
natural,  141,  145,  150 
organized,  141,  145,  150 
unorganized,  137-9,  141,  150-1 
Implicit  knowledge,  148 
Impotence  of  intellect  and  per- 
ception to  grasp  life,  176-8 
Imprisonment  of  consciousness, 
180-3,  264-6 

Impulse  of  life,  divergence  of,  26, 
27,  51-5,  97-105,  110,  118-9, 

126-7,  131,  134-6,  257,  258,  266, 
270 

limitedness  of,  126,  141,  148-9, 
254 

loaded  with  matter,  239 
tendency  to  mobility,  131,  132 
as  necessity  for  creation,  252, 
261 

negates  itself,  247,  248 


Impulse  {Continued) 
prolonged  in  evolution,  246 
prolonged  in  our  will,  239 
transmitted  through  genera- 
tions of  organisms,  25,  26,  79, 
85,  87,  230,  231 
unity  of,  202,  250,  270 

Impulsion  and  attraction  in 
Greek  philosophy,  323-4 
release  and  unwinding,  the 
three  kinds  of  cause,  73 
given  to  mind  by  matter,  202 

Inadequacy  of  act  to  representa- 
tion, consciousness  as,  143 

Inadequate  and  adequate  in 
Spinoza,  353 

Inanition,  illustrating  primacy  of 
nervous  system,  124  note 

Incoherence,  236.  See  Absence 
of  order.  Chance,  Chaos 
in  nature,  104 

Incommensurability  of  free  act 
with  conceptual  idea,  47,  201 
of  instinct  and  intelligence,  167- 
8,  175 

Incompatibility  of  developed  ten- 
dencies, 104,  168 

Independent  variable,  time  as,  20, 
335-6 

Indetermination,  86,  114,  126,  252, 
253,  326.  See  Accident  in 

evolution 

Indeterminism  in  Descartes,  345 

Individual,  viewed  by  intelligence 
as  aggregate  of  molecules 
and  of  facts,  250-1 
and  division  of  labor,  140 
in  evolutionist  biology,  169,  171, 
246  note 

and  genus,  226-9 
mind  in  philosophy,  191 
aesthetic  intuition  only  attains 
the,  177 

and  society,  260,  265 
transmits  the  vital  impetus, 
250,  259,  270 

Individuality  never  absolute,  x, 
12,  13,  16,  19,  42,  260 
and  age,  15-23,  27,  43 
corporeal,  physics  tends  to 
deny,  188,  189,  208.  See  In- 
terpenetration, Obliteration 
of  outlines.  Solidarity  of  the 
parts  of  matter 
and  generality,  226-8 
the  many  and  the  one  in  the 
idea  of,  x,  258 

as  plan  of  possible  influence,  11 

Individuation  never  absolute,  x. 


388 


INDEX 


Individuation  {Continued) 

12-16,  43.  260 

as  a cosmic  principle  in  con- 
trast with  association,  259- 
60 

property  of  life,  12-5 
partly  the  work  of  matter,  257- 
8,  259,  270 

Indivisibility  of  action,  94,  95, 
of  duration,  6,  308 
of  invention,  164 
of  life,  225,  270-1.  See  Unity 
of  life  of  motion,  307-11 
Induction  in  animals,  214 

certainty  of,  approached  as 
''factors  approach  pure  mag- 
nitudes, 222,  223 
and  duration,  216 
and  expectation,  214-6 
geometry  the  ideal  limit  of,  214- 
8,  361.  See  Space,  Geometry, 
Reasoning,  “Descending” 

movement  of  matter,  etc. 
and  magnitude,  215,  216 
repetition  the  characteristic 
function  of  intellect,  164,  199, 
205-16 

and  space,  216.  See  Space  as 
the  ideal  limit,  Systems,  etc. 
Industry,  ix,  161,  162,  164 
Inert  matter  and  action,  96,  136, 
141,  155,  187,  198,  225,  367 
in  Aristotle,  316,  327,  353 
bodies,  7,  8,  12,  14.  20,  21,  156, 
159,  174,  186,  188,  189,  204, 
213,  215,  228,  240,  241,  298, 
300,  341,  342,  346-8,  360 
Creation  of.  See  Inert  matter 
the  inversion  of  life 
flux  of,  186,  265,  273,  369 
and  form,  148,  149,  157,  239,  250 
genesis  of,  188 
homogeneity  of,  156 
imitation  of  living  matter  by, 
33,  35,  36 

imitation  of  physical  order  by 
vital,  230 

instantaneity  of,  10,  201 

and  intellect,  ix,  31.  141,  159-62, 


164, 

165, 

167-8, 

175, 

179, 

181, 

186, 

187, 

, 195, 

196, 

197, 

198, 

205- 

12,  : 

216-9, 

224, 

264, 

270, 

319, 

369 

the  inversion  or  interruption  of 
life,  93.  94,  98,  99,  128-9,  153, 
177,  186,  189,  190,  196,  197,  201, 
203,  208,  216-9,  231,  235,  236, 
239,  240,  245-50,  252,  254,  256, 
258,  259,  261,  264,  267,  272, 


Inert  matter  (Continued) 

276,  319,  339-40,  343.  See  In- 
ert matter,  order  inherent  in 
knowledge  of,  approximate  but 
not  relative,  206 
the  metaphysics  and  the  phy- 
sics of,  195-6 
as  necessity,  252,  264 
the  order  inherent  in,  40,  103, 
153,  201,  207-12,  216,  226-7, 

230-6,  245,  251,  263,  274,  319-20. 
See  Inert  matter,  inversion  of 
life 

penetration  of,  by  life,  25,  26, 
51,  179,  181,  237,  239,  266,  270, 
271 

and  perception,  12,  206,  226 
and  the  psychical,  201,  202,  205, 
269,  270,  350,  367 
solidarity  of  the  parts  of,  188, 
202,  207,  241,  257-9,  270,  271, 
352 

and  space,  10,  153,  189,  204-11, 
214,  244,  250,  251,  257 
in  Spencer’s  philosophy,  365 
Inertia,  176,  224 
Infant,  intelligence  in,  147,  148 
Inference  a beginning  of  inven- 
tion, 138 

Inferiority  in  evolutionary  rank, 
174-5 

Influence,  possible,  11,  189 
Infusoria,  conjugation  of,  15 
development  of  the  eye  from 
its  stage  in,  60-1,  72,  78,  84 
and  individuation,  260 
and  mechanical  explanations, 
34,  35 

vegetable  function  in,  116 
Inheritance  of  acquired  charac- 
ters. See  Hereditary  trans- 
mission 

Innate  knowledge,  146-7,  150-1 
Innateness  of  the  categories,  148, 
149-50 

Inorganic  matter.  See  Inert 
matter 

Insectivorous  plants,  107-9 
Insects,  19,  101,  107,  126,  131,  134, 
135,  140-1,  146,  147,  157,  166, 
169,  171-5,  188 

apogee  of  instinct  in  hymenop- 
tera,  134,  173-4 

consciousness  and  instinct,  145, 
167,  173 

continuity  of  instinct  with  or- 
ganization, 139,  145 
fallibility  of  instinct  in,  172-3 
instinct  in  general  in,  169,  173-4 


INDEX 


389 


Insects  {Continued) 
language  of  ants,  157-8 
object  of  instinct  in,  146 
paralyzing  instinct  in,  146,  171, 
172-3 

social  instinct  in,  101,  157-8,  171 
special  instincts  as  variations 
on  a theme,  167.  See  Ar- 
thropods in  evolution 
Insensible  variation,  63,  66 
Inspiration  of  a poem  an  un- 
divided intuitive  act,  con- 
trasted with  its  intellectual 
imitation  in  words,  209,  210, 
258.  See  Sympathy 
Instantaneity  of  the  intellectual 
view,  31,  70,  84,  89,  199,  201-2, 
207,  226,  249,  258,  273,  300-6, 
311,  314,  331-3,  342,  351,  352 
Instinct  and  action  on  inert  mat- 
ter, 136,  141 

in  animals  as  distinguished 
from  plants,  170 
in  cells,  166 

and  consciousness,  143-5,  166, 

167,  173,  174.  175.  186 
culmination  of,  in  evolution, 

133,  174-5.  See  Arthropods  in 
evolution.  Evolutionary  su- 
periority 

fallibility  of,  173-4 
in  insects  in  general,  169,  173-4 
and  intelligence,  xii,  51,  100, 

103,  113,  116-8,  132-7,  141-3, 
145,  150,  152,  159,  168-70,  173- 
9,  184-5,  186,  197-8,  238,  246, 
254,  255,  259,  267,  268,  343, 
345,  366 

and  intuition,  177,  178-9,  181 
object  of,  146-52,  165,  168,  172- 
9,  186,  189,  195,  234,  254 
and  organization,  23-4,  138-40, 
145,  166-8,  171-2,  173,  176,  193, 
194,  264 

paralyzing,  in  certain  hymen- 
optera,  146,  171,  172-3 
in  plants,  170,  171 
social,  of  insects,  101,  157-8,  171 
Instinctive  knowledge,  148,  167, 

168,  173-4 
learning,  193 

metaphysics,  192,  269,  270,  277 
Instrument,  action  as,  of  con- 
sciousness, 180 

animal,  is  natural;  human  arti- 
ficial, 139-43 

automatic  activity  as  instru- 
ment of  voluntary,  252 
consciousness  as,  of  action,  180 


Instrument  {Continued) 
intelligence;  the  function  of  in- 
telligence is  to  construct 
instruments,  159,  192-3 
intelligence  transforms  life  into 
an,  162 

intelligence  transforms  matter 
into  an,  161,  198 
intelligence:  the  instruments  of 
intelligence  are  artificial,  ix, 
137-9,  140-1,  150-1 
natural  or  organized  instru- 
ments of  instinct,  140-1,  145, 
150 

Intellect  and  action,  ix,  11,  29, 
44-8,  93,  136,  142,  152-7,  162, 
179,  186,  187,  192,  195,  197-8, 
219,  220,  226-9,  251,  270,  273, 
297-9,  301,  302,  306,  329,  346-7 
in  animals,  187 

Fichte’s  conception  of  the,  189, 
190,  357 

function  of  the,  5,  11,  12,  44- 
50,  92,  93,  126,  137-45,  149-60, 
162-4,  168,  174,  176,  181,  187- 
99,  204-8,  214-9,  229,  233,  237, 
241,  242,  246,  247,  251,  270,  290, 
298,  299,  328,  336,  337,  341,  342, 
347,  348  356,  357 
genesis  of  the,  xi-xv,  49,  103, 
104-5,  126-7,  152,  153,  186,  187, 
189,  193,  194,  195,  198,  207, 
247-9,  358,  359,  366 
as  inversion  of  intuition,  7,  8, 
11,  12,  46,  49,  51,  86,  88-91. 
93,  94,  103-4,  113,  116-8,  129, 
132,  133,  135,  136,  139-43,  145, 
157,  161,  168-80,  181,  183,  184, 
185,  190-204,  207-12,  216-8,  221, 
223,  225-6,  230-3,  235,  236,  238, 
245-52,  254-9,  264,  267-71,  276, 
277,  313,  330,  339,  342-5,  361, 
369 

and  language,  4,  148,  158-60, 
258,  265,  292,  303,  304,  312, 
313,  326 

and  matter,  ix-xv,  10,  11,  48-9, 
92,  135,  136,  141,  142,  152-4, 
155,  160,  161,  165,  168,  175,  179, 
181,  182,  186-7,  190,  193,  194, 
195,  198,  199,  201-4,  205-10,  213, 
215,  218-20,  224,  225-30,  240-2, 
245,  246,  248-52,  254,  256-9, 

264,  270,  271,  272,  273,  275,  297- 
8,  306,  319,  321,  329,  340,  341- 
3,  347-9,  355,  358-61,  368,  369 
mechanism  of  the,  ix-xv,  4,  30, 
32,  47-9,  70,  84-5,  88-9,  101, 
137-8,  150-5,  156-7,  160,  161, 


390 


INDEX 


Intellect  {Continued) 


164, 

165, 

, 167, 

168, 

173, 

174, 

176, 

177, 

186,  187,  190-3, 

194- 

218, 

223- 

40,  244, 

, 246- 

■7,  249-51, 

254, 

255, 

, 257, 

258, 

266, 

270, 

273, 

276 

-7,  292 

!,  300-21, 

325, 

329, 

330, 

, 332, 

337, 

338, 

339, 

341- 

8,  351,  358- 

•9,  361-2, 

363- 

4,  365,  367 

object  of  the,  ix-xv,  7,  8,  10, 
17,  20,  21,  30,  31,  34,  35,  37, 
46-9,  52,  71,  74,  84,  87-92,  93, 
95,  102,  103,  139,  140,  149,  152- 
66,  168,  173,  175-9,  180,  181, 
^186,  190,  193-211,  213,  216-20, 
223,  224,  226,  228-30,  233,  237, 
238,  240,  245,  249-51,  254,  255, 
257-9,  261,  264,  265,  270,  271, 
273,  274,  298-314,  318-22,  326, 

328,  329,  332-8,  342,  344-9,  351, 
352-7,  359-61,  363,  365,  369-70 

and  perception,  4-5,  11,  12,  93- 
4,  161-2,  168,  176-7,  188,  189, 
205,  207,  226-7,  228-9,  230,  238, 
249-51,  273,  299-300,  301,  306, 
359-60 

and  rhythm,  299,  300-1,  306-7, 

329,  337,  346-7 

and  science,  8-12,  31,  92-3,  152, 
153,  157-8,  159,  160-1,  162-3, 
168,  173-6,  187,  193-8,  202,  204, 
207-9,  214-6,  217,  225-6,  228- 
9,  241,  251,  270,  273,  297-8, 
306,  321,  322,  329,  333-5,  345, 
346-8,  354,  356,  357,  359-60, 

362-3,  369-70 

and  space,  10-11,  154,  156-7,  160- 
3,  174-5,  176-7,  189,  202-4,  207- 
12,  215,  218,  222-3,  244,  245, 
250,  251,  257-8,  361-2 
and  time,  4,  8-9,  17,  18,  20-2,  36, 
39,  45-6,  47,  51,  163,  300,  301, 
331-2,  335-7,  341 

possibility  of  transcending  the, 
xii,  xiii,  48,  152,  177-8,  193-4, 
198-200,  205-6,  207-8,  266,  360- 
1.  See  Philosophy,  Intelli- 
gence 

Intellectualism,  hesitation  of 
Descartes  between,  and  in- 
tuitionism,  345 

Intelligence  and  action,  137-41, 
150,  154-5,  161,  162-3,  181,  189, 
198,  306 

animal.  138,  187,  188,  212 
categories  of,  x,  48,  195-6 
of  the  child,  147-8 
and  consciousness,  187 
culmination  of,  130,  139-40,  174- 


Intelligence  (Continued) 

5.  See  Superiority 
genesis  of,  136,  177-8,  366 
and  the  individual,  251 
and  instinct,  109,  135,  136,  141, 
142,  168-70,  173-7,  179,  186,  197, 
209,  238,  259,  267 
in  Kant’s  philosophy,  357-8 
and  law’s,  229-30 
limitations  of,  152 
and  matter,  152,  159-60,  161-2, 

175,  179,  181,  186,  189,  194-8, 
230,  237,  250,  369,  370 

mechanism  of,  152,  153,  164,  165 
and  motion,  153,  159-60,  274, 
303-7,  312,  313,  329 
object  of,  145-56,  161,  162,  175, 
179,  250 

practical  nature  of,  ix-xv,  137- 
9,  141,  150-1,  247-8,  305,  306, 
328-9 

and  reality,  ix-xv,  161-2,  177. 

237,  251,  258,  269,  271,  307 
and  science,  175,  176,  193,  194-5 
and  signs,  157,  158,  159,  160 
and  space,  205 

See  Intellect,  Understanding, 
Reason 

Intelligent,  the,  contrasted  with 
the  merely  intelligible,  175 
Intelligible  reality  in  ancient  phi- 
losophy, 316-7 
world,  160-1 

Intelligibles  of  Plotinus,  353 
Intension  of  knowledge,  149-50 
Intensity  of  consciousness  varies 
w’ith  ratio  of  possible  to  real 
action,  144-5 

Intention  as  contrasted  with 
mechanism,  233.  See  Auto- 
matic order.  Willed  order 
of  life  the  object  of  instinct, 

176,  233 

Interaction,  universal,  188-9 
Interest  as  cause  of  variation,  131 
in  representation  of  “nought,” 
296,  297.  See  Affection,  role 
of,  etc. 

Internal  finality,  41 
Internality  of  instinct,  168,  174- 
5,  176-7 

of  subject  in  object  the  condi- 
tion of  knowledge  of  reality, 
307,  317,  358-9 

Interpenetration,  161,  162,  174-5, 

177,  184  note,  188,  189,  201-3, 

207-8,  257,  258,  270,  319-20, 

341,  352 

Interruption,  materiality  an,  of 


INDEX 


391 


positivity,  219,  246,  247-8,  319- 
20.  See  Inverse  relation,  etc. 

Interval  of  time,  8-9,  22,  23 
between  what  is  done  and  what 
might  be  done  covered  by 
consciousness,  179 

Intuition,  continuity  between  sen- 
sible and  ultra -intellectual, 
360-1 

dialectic  and,  in  philosophy, 
238.  See  Intellect  as  inver- 
sion of  intuition 
fringe  of,  around  the  nucleus 
of  intellect,  xiii,  12,  46,  49, 
193 

and  instinct,  176-9,  182 
and  intellect  in  theoretical 
knowlege,  176-9,  270-1. 

Intuitional  cosmology  as  reversed 
psychology,  207-8 
metaphysics  contrasted  with  in- 
tellectual or  systematic,  191-2, 
268-70,  277-8 

method  of  philosophy,  apparent 
vicious  circle  of,  191-4,  195- 
8 

Intuitionism  in  Spinoza,  347-8 
and  intellectualism  in  Des- 
cartes, 345-6 

Invention,  consciousness  as,  and 
freedom,  264,  270-1 
creativeness  of,  164,  237,  340, 
341 

disproportion  between,  and  its 
consequences,  181,  182-3 
duration  as,  10-1 
evolution  as,  102-3,  255,  344-5 
fervor  of,  164 
indivisibility  of,  164 
inference  a beginning  of,  138 
mechanical,  142-3,  194-5 
of  steam  engine  as  epoch-mark- 
ing, 138-9 
time  as,  341 
unforeseeableness  of,  164 
upspringing  of,  164 
See  New 

Inverse  relation  of  the  physical 
and  psychical,  126-7,  143-4, 

145,  173-4,  177-8,  201,  202,  206- 
7,  208,  210-1,  212,  217,  218,  222, 
223,  236,  240,  245,  246,  247-8, 
249,  256,  257,  261,  264,  265, 
270,  319-20 

Irreversibility  of  duration.  See 
Repetition 

Isolated  systems  of  matter,  204, 
213,  215,  241,  242,  341,  342, 
346,  347-8.  See  Bodies 


Janet,  Paul,  60-1  note 
Jennings,  35  note 
Jourdain  and  the  two  kinds  of 
order,  221 

Juxtaposition,  207-8,  338,  339, 

341.  Cf.  Succession 

Kaleidoscopic  variation,  74 
Kant,  antinomies  of,  204-5,  206 
becoming  in  Kant’s  successors, 
362 

coincidence  of  matter  with 
space  in  Kant’s  philosophy, 
206,  207-8,  244 

construction  the  method  of 
Kant’s  successors,  364-5 
his  criticism  of  pure  reason, 
205,  287  note,  356-62,  364 
degrees  of  being  in  Kant’s  suo- 
cessors,  362-3 

duration  in  Kant’s  successors, 
362-3 

intelligence  in  Kant’s  philoso- 
phy, 230,  357 

ontological  argument  in  Kant’s 
philosophy,  285 

space  and  time  in  Kant’s  phil- 
osophy, 204-6 
and  Spencer,  364 
See  Mind  and  matter.  Sensuous 
manifold,  Thing-in-itself 
Kantianism,  358,  364 
Katagenesis,  34 
Kepler,  228-9,  332-5 
Knowledge  and  action,  150,  193-4, 
196,  197,  206-7,  208,  218 
criticism  of,  193-4 
discontinuity  of,  306 
extension  of,  149 
form  of,  148,  194-5,  358-362 
formal,  152 
genesis  of,  190 
innate  or  natural,  146-50 
instinct  in,  143,  144,  166-9,  173, 
177,  192-3,  198,  268 
intellect  in,  ix-xv,  48,  149,  162- 
4,  177,  179,  193-4,  196-9,  206-7, 
208,  218,  237,  238,  251,  270, 
305,  306,  312,  313,  315,  317, 
325,  331-2,  342,  343,  347-8,  359- 
60,  361 

intension  of,  149-50 
of  reality  viewed  as  the  intem- 
ality  of  subject  in  object, 
307,  317,  358-9 

intuition  and  intellect  in  theo- 
retical knowledge,  174-7,  179, 
238,  270,  342-4 

matter  of,  194-5,  357-8,  359-62 


392 


INDEX 


Knowledge  {Continued) 
of  matter,  xi,  48,  206-7,  360-1 
object  of,  ix-xv,  1,  48,  147,  148, 
159-60,  163,  164,  197-9,  270, 

342,  359-60 

fundamental  problem  of,  273-5 
as  relative  to  certain  require- 
ments of  the  mind,  152,  190- 
1,  230 

scientific,  193-4,  196-8,  206,  207, 
218 

theory  of,  xiii,  177,  179,  197, 
204-5,  207-8,  229,  231 
unconscious,  142-6,  146,  150,  165, 
166 

alleged  unknowableness  of  the 
thing-in-itself,  205,  206 
Kunstler,  260  note 

Labbe,  260  note 

Labor,  division  of,  99,  110,  118, 
140,  157,  166,  260 
Lalande,  Andre,  246  note 
Lamarck,  75-6 

Lamarckism,  75-6,  77,  84-87 
Language,  4,  147,  157-60,  258,  265, 
293,  302-3,  305,  312-4,  320 
La  Place,  38 

Lapsed  intelligence,  instinct  as, 
169,  175 

Larvae,  19,  140,  145-66,  172-3 
Latent  geometrism  of  intellect, 
194,  211-2 

Law  of  correlation,  66,  67 
and  genera,  226-9,  330 
heliocentric  radius-vector  in 
Kepler’s  laws,  334 
imprint  of  relations  and  laws 
upon  consciousness  in  Spen- 
cer’s philosophy,  188 
and  intuitional  philosophy,  176-7 
physical,  contrasted  with  the 
laws  of  our  codes,  218-9 
physical,  expression  of  the  neg- 
ative movement,  218 
physical,  mathematical  form  of, 
218,  219,  229-30,  241 
relation  as,  228,  229-30 
Learning,  instinctive,  192,  193 
Le  Dan  tec,  18  note 
Leibniz,  cause  in,  277 
dogmatism  of,  356,  357 
extension  in,  351,  352 
God  in,  351,  352,  356 
mechanism  in,  348,  351,  355, 

356 

his  philosophy  a systematization 
of  physics,  347 
space  in,  351-2 


Leibniz  (Continued) 
teleology  in,  39,  40 
time  in,  352,  362 
Lepidoptera,  114  note,  134 
Le  Roy,  Ed.,  218  note 
Liberation  of  consciousness,  183-4, 

265,  266 

Liberty.  See  Freedom 
Life  as  activity,  128-9,  246 
cause  in  the  realm  of,  94,  164, 
complementarity  of  the  powers 
of,  ix-xv,  25-6,  27,  51-5, 

97-105,  110,  113,  116-9,  126- 

7,  131-6,  140-3,  176,  177,  183, 
184,  246,  254-7,  266,  270,  343, 
344-5 

consciousness  co-extensive  with, 
186,  257,  270,  362-3 
mutual  contingency  of  the  or- 
ders of  life  and  matter,  235 
continuity  of,  1-11,  29,  30,  162, 
163,  258 

as  creation,  57-8,  161-2,  223, 

230,  246,  247-8,  252,  254,  255 
symbolized  by  a curve,  31,  89, 
90 

embryonic,  166 

and  finality,  44,  89,  164,  185,  222- 
3 

fluidity  of,  153,  165,  191-2,  193 
as  free,  129-30 

function  of,  93-4,  106-10,  113, 
114,  117,  120,  121,  126-7,  173-5, 
246,  254-6 

harmony  of  the  realm  of,  50,  51, 
103,  116,  117-8,  127 
imitation  of  the  inert  by,  230 
imitation  of,  by  the  inert,  33-6 
impulse  of,  prolonged  in  our 
will,  239 

and  individuation.  12-4,  26,  27, 
79-80,  85,  87,  88,  127-8,  149, 
195-6,  230,  231,  250,  259,  261, 
269,  300-1,  302-3.  See  Individ- 
uality 

indivisibility  of,  225-6,  270 
and  instinct,  136-40.  145,  165-8, 
170,  172,  173,  175-9,  186,  192-7, 
233,  264,  366 

and  intellect,  ix-xv,  13,  32-5. 
44-9,  89,  101,  102-3,  104-5,  127, 
136,  152,  160-5,  168,  173-4,  176- 
9,  181,  191-201,  206,  207,  213, 
220,  222-3.  224,  225-6,  257-61, 

266.  270.  300-1,  342,  355.  359- 
61,  365,  366 

and  interpenetration,  271 
as  inversion  of  the  inert,  6-7, 

8,  176,  177,  186,  190.  191,  196, 


INDEX 


393 


Life  (Continued) 

197,  201,  202,  207,  208-9,  210-1, 
212,  216,  217,  218,  222-3,  225-6, 
232,  235,  236,  238,  239,  245-50, 
264,  329-31 

a limited  force,  126,  127,  141, 
148,  149,  254 
and  memory,  167 
penetrating  matter,  26,  27,  52, 
179,  181,  182,  237,  239,  266, 
269-70 

as  tendency  to  mobility,  128,  131, 
132 

and  physics  and  chemistry,  31, 
33,  35,  36,  225-6 
in  other  planets,  256 
as  potentiality,  258 
repetition  in,  and  In  the  inert, 
224,  225,  230,  231 
sinuousness  of,  71,  98,  99,  102, 
112,  113,  116,  129-30,  212 
social,  138,  140,  157-8,  265 
in  other  solar  systems,  256 
and  evolution  of  species,  247-8, 
254,  269 

theory  of,  and  theory  of  know- 
ledge, xii,  177,  179,  197 
unforeseeableness  of,  6,  8-9,  20, 
26-7,  28,  29,  37,  45-6,  47,  48, 
52,  86,  96,  163,  164,  184,  223-4, 
249,  339,  341 
unity  of,  250,  268,  270 
as  a wave  flowing  over  matter, 
251,  266 

See  Impulse  of.  Organic  sub- 
stance, Organism,  Organiza- 
tion, Vital  impetus.  Vital  or- 
der, Vital  principle.  Vitalism, 
Willed  order 

Limitations  of  instinct  and  of  in- 
telligence, 152 

Limitedness  of  the  scope  of  Gali- 
leo’s physics,  357,  370 
of  the  vital  impetus,  126,  127, 
141,  148,  149,  255 

Linden,  Maria  von,  114  note 

Lingulae  illustrating  failure  to 
evolve,  102 

Lizards,  color  variation  in,  72,  74 

Locomotion  and  consciousness, 
108,  111,  115,  261.  See  Mobil- 
ity, Movement 

Logic  and  action,  ix,  44,  46,  162, 
179 

formal,  292 

genesis  of,  x-xi,  xiii-xiv,  49, 
103,  104-5,  136,  191-2,  193,  301, 
359,  366 

and  geometry,  ix,  161,  176,  212 


Logic  ( Con  tinned ) 
impotent  to  grasp  life,  x,  13,  32, 
35,  36,  46-9,  89,  101,  152,  162-5, 
194-201,  205,  206,  213,  219,  220, 
222,  223,  225-6,  256-61,  266, 

270,  313,  355,  360-1,  365 
natural,  161,  194-5 
of  number,  208 
and  physics,  319-20,  321 
and  time,  4,  277 
See  Intellect,  Intelligence,  Un- 
derstanding, Order,  mathe- 
matical 

Logical  existence  contrasted  with 
psychical  and  physical,  277, 
298,  328,  361-2 
categories,  x,  48,  195,  196 
and  physical  contrasted,  276-7 
Logik,  by  Sigwart,  287  note 
Xoyos,  in  Plotinus,  210  note 
Looking  backward,  the  attitude 
of  intellect,  46,  237 
Lumbriculus,  13 

Machinery  and  intelligence,  141 
Machines,  natural  and  artificial, 
139.  See  Implement,  Instru- 
ment 

organisms,  for  action,  252,  254, 
300-1 

Magnitude,  certainty  of  induction 
approached  as  factors  ap- 
proach pure  magnitudes,  215- 
16 

and  modern  science,  333,  335 
Man  in  evolution,  attention,  184 
brain,  183,  184,  263-5 
consciousness,  139-43,  180,  181, 
183,  185,  187,  188,  191-2,  212, 
262-8 

goal.  134,  174-5,  185,  266,  267, 
269,  270 

habit  and  invention,  265 
intelligence,  133,  137-9,  143,  146, 
174,  175,  187,  188,  212,  266,  267 
language,  158 
Manaceine  (de),  124  note 
Manufacture,  the  aim  of  intellect, 
137,  138,  145,  152-4,  159-65, 

181,  191,  192,  199,  251,  298 
and  organization,  92,  93,  126-7, 
139-43,  150 

and  repetition,  44,  45,  155-8 
See  Construction,  Solid,  Utility 
Many  and  one,  categories  inap- 
plicable to  life,  X,  162-3,  177- 
8,  257,  261,  268 

in  the  idea  of  individuality,  258 
See  Multiplicity 


394 


INDEX 


Martin,  J.,  102  note 
Marion,  107  note 
Material  knowledge,  152 
Materialists,  240 

Materialty  the  inversion  of  spirit- 
uality, 212 

Mathematical  order.  See  Inert 
matter.  Order 
Matter.  See  Inert  matter 
Maturation  as  creative  evolution, 
47-8,  230 
Maupas,  35  note 

Measurement  a human  conven- 
tion, 218,  242 

of  real  time  an  illusion,  336- 
40 

Mechanical  account  of  action  af- 
ter the  fact,  47 

cause,  X,  34,  35,  ^0,  44,  177,  234, 
235 

procedure  of  intellect,  165 
invention,  138,  140,  194-5 
necessity,  47,  215,  216,  218,  236, 
252,  265,  270,  327 
Mechanics  of  transformation,  32 
Mechanism,  cerebral,  252,  253,  262, 
263,  265,  366.  See  Cerebral 
activity  and  consciousness 
of  the  eye,  88 
instinct  as,  176-7 
of  intellect.  See  Intellect, 

mechanism  of 

and  intention,  233.  See  Auto- 
matic order.  Willed  order 
life  more  than,  x,  xiv  note,  78- 
9 

Mechanistic  philosophy,  xii,  xiv, 
17,  29,  30,  37,  74,  88-96,  101, 
102,  194-5,  218,  223,  264,  345, 
346,  347,  348,  351,  355,  356, 
362 

Medical  philosophers  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  356 
science,  165 

Medullary  bulb  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  nervous  system, 
252 

and  consciousness,  110 
Memory,  5,  17,  20,  21,  167,  168,  180, 
181,  201 

Menopause  in  illustration  of 
crisis  of  evolution,  19 
Mental  life,  unity  of,  268 
Metamorphoses  of  larvae,  139-40, 
146-7,  166 

Metaphysics  and  duration,  276 
and  epistemology,  177,  179,  185, 
197,  208-9 

Galileo’s  influence  on,  20,  238 


Metaphysics  (.Continued) 
instinctive,  191-2,  269,  270,  277- 
8 

and  intellect,  189-90 
and  matter,  194 
natural,  21,  325 

and  science,  176-7,  194-5,  198, 
208-9,  344,  354,  369-70 
systematic,  191,  192,  194,  195- 
6,  238,  269,  270,  347 
Metchnikoff,  18  note 
Method  of  philosophy,  191-2 
Microbes,  illustrating  divergence 
of  tendency,  117 
Microbial  colonies,  259 
Mind,  individual,  in  philosophy, 
191 

and  intellect,  48-9,  205-6 
knowledge  as  relative  to  cer- 
tain requirements  of  the 
mind,  152,  190-1,  230 
and  matter,  188-9,  201,  202,  203, 
205-6,  264,  269,  270,  350,  365-9 
See  Psychic,  Psycho-physio- 
logical parallelism.  Psychol- 
ogy and  Philosophy, 

Minot,  Sedgwick,  17  note 
Mobility,  tendency  toward,  char- 
acterizes animals,  109,  110, 

113,  129-32,  135,  180 
and  consciousness,  108,  111,  115- 
6,  261 

and  intellect,  154-5,  161-2,  163, 
300,  326,  327,  337 
of  intelligent  signs,  158,  159 
life  as  tendency  toward,  127-8, 
131,  132 

in  plants,  112,  135 
See  Motion 
Mobius,  60  note 

Model  necessary  to  the  construc- 
tive work  of  intellect,  164, 
166-7 

Modern  astronomy  compared  with 
ancient  science,  334,  335 
geometry  compared  with  an- 
cient science,  31,  161,  334 
idealism,  231 

philosophy  compared  with  an- 
cient, 225-9,  231,  327-8,  344, 
345,  349-51,  354,  356-7 
philosophy:  parallelism  of  body 
and  mind  in,  180,  350,  355, 
356 

science:  cinematographical  char- 
acter of,  329,  330,  336,  341,  342, 
346-7 

science  compared  with  ancient, 
329-36,  342-5,  356-7 


INDEX 


395 


Modern  {Continued) 

■science,  Galileo’s  influence  on, 
334,  335 

'Science,  Kepler’s  influence  on, 
334 

science,  magnitudes  the  object 
of,  333,  335 

science,  time  an  independent 
variable  in,  20,  335 
Molecules,  251 

IMolluscs,  illustrating  animal  ten- 
dency to  mobility,  129-31 
perception  in,  189 
vision  in,  60,  75,  77,  83,  86,  87 
Monads  of  Leibniz,  351-4 
Monera,  126 
Monism,  355 

Moral  sciences,  weakness  of  de- 
duction in,  212 
Morat,  123  note 
Morgan,  L.,  79  note,  80 
Motion,  abstract,  304 
articulations  of,  310-1 
an  animal  characteristic,  252 
and  the  cinematograph,  304-5 
continuity  of,  310 
in  Descartes,  346-7 
evolutionary,  extensive  and 
qualitative,  302,  303,  311,  312 
in  general  (i.e.  abstract),  304-5 
indivisibility  of,  306-7,  311,  336- 
7,  338 

and  instinct,  139-40,  331-2 
and  intellect,  71,  155,  156,  159- 
60,  273,  274,  298,  317-8,  321, 
329,  331-2,  338,  344-5 
organization  of,  310-1 
track  laid  by  motion  along  its 
course,  308-11,  337,  338 
See  Mobility,  Movement 
Motive  principle  of  evolution: 

consciousness,  181-2 
Motor  mechanisms,  cerebral,  252, 
253,  263,  265 

Moulin-Quignon,  quarry  of,  137 
Moussu,  81 

Movement  and  animal  life,  108, 
131,  132 

ascending,  12,  101,  103,  104,  185, 
208-9,  210-1,  369-70.  See  Vital 
impetus 

consciousness  and.  111,  118,  144- 
5,  207-8 

descending,  11-2,  202-4,  207-10, 
212,  246,  252,  256,  270,  276, 

339,  361,  369-70 

goal  of,  the  object  of  the  intel- 
lect, 155,  299-300,  302,  303 
intellect  unable  to  grasp,  313 


Movement  {Continued) 
mutual  inversion  of  cosmic 
movements,  126-7,  143,  144, 

173-4,  176,  177,  209-10,  212, 

217,  218,  222-3,  236,  245-51, 

261,  264,  265,  272,  342-3 
life  as,  166,  176-7 
and  the  nervous  system,  110, 
132,  134,  180,  262-3 
of  plants,  109,  135-6 
See  Mobility,  Motion,  Locomo- 
tion, Current,*  Tendency,  Im- 
petus, Impulse,  Impulsion 
Movements,  antagonistic  cosmic, 
128-9,  135,  181,  185,  250,  259. 
See  Movement,  Mutual  inver- 
sion of  cosmic 

Multiplicity,  abstract,  257,  259 
distinct,  202,  209-10,  257.  See 
Interpenetration 
does  not  apply  to  life,  x,  162, 
177.  257,  261,  270 
Mutability,  exhaustion  of,  of  the 
universe,  244,  245 
Mutations,  sudden,  28,  62-3,  64-8 
theory  of,  85-6 

Natural  geometry,  195-6,  211-2 
instrument,  141,  144-5,  150-1 
or  innate  knowledge,  147,  150-1 
logic,  161,  194-5 
metaphysic,  21,  325-6 
selection.  54,  56-7,  69-60,  61-5, 
68,  95,  169-70 

Nature,  Aristotelian  theory  of, 
135,  174 

discord  in,  127-8,  255,  267 
facts  and  relations  in,  368 
incoherence  in,  104 
as  inert  matter,  161-2,  218,  219, 
228-9,  239,  245,  264,  280-1, 

303,  356,  359-60,  367 
as  life,  100,  138,  139-40,  141-2, 
143,  144-5,  150,  154,  155-6, 

227,  241,  260,  269,  270,  301-2 
order  of,  225-6 
as  ordered  diversity,  231,  233 
unity  of,  105,  190,  191,  195,  196- 
9,  322,  352-7,  358 
Nebula,  cosmic,  249,  257 
Necessity  for  creation,  vital  im- 
petus as,  252,  261 
and  death  of  individuals,  246 
note 

and  freedom,  218,  236,  270 
in  Greek  philosophy,  326-7 
in  induction,  215,  216 
and  matter,  252,  264 
Negation,  275,  285-97.  See 

Nought 


396 


INDEX 


Negative  cause  of  mathematical 
order,  217.  See  Inverse  re- 
lation, etc. 

cosmic  principle,  126-7,  143,  144, 
173-4,  176-7,  209,  212,  218,  223- 
4,  236,  245-51,  261,  264-5,  272, 
243.  See  Inert  matter.  Oppo- 
sition of  the  two  ultimate 
cosmic  movements,  etc. 
Neo-Darwinism,  55,  56,  85,  86, 

169-70 

Neo-Lamarckism,  42  note 
Nervous  system  a centre  of  ac- 
tion, 109,  130-1,  132,  134-5, 

180,  253,  261-3 
of ''the  plant,  114 
primacy  of,  120-1,  126-7,  252 
Neurone  and  indetermination,  126 
New,  freedom  and  the,  11-2,  164, 
165,  199-200,  218,  230,  239,  249, 
270,  339-42 
Newcomen,  184 
Newton,  335 

Nitrogen  and  the  function  of  or- 
ganisms, 108,  113-4,  117,  255 
vo'qaecjs  vdr^ats  of  Aristotle,  356 
Non-existence.  See  Nought 
Nothing.  See  Nought 
Nought,  conception  of  the,  273- 
80,  281-3,  289-90,  292-8,  316-7, 
327.  See  Negation,  Pseudo- 
ideas, etc. 

VOOs  TlOCfjTCKds  of  Aristotle,  322 
Novelty.  See  new. 

Nucleus  intelligence  as  the  lumi- 
nous, enveloped  by  instinct, 
166-7 

in  microbial  colonies,  259 
intelligence  as  the  solid,  bathed 
by  a mist  of  instinct,  193,  194 
of  Stentor,  260 

Number  illustrating  degrees  of 
reality,  324-5,  327 
logic  of,  208 
Nuptial  flight,  146 
Nutritive  elements,  fixation  of, 
107-9,  114,  117,  246,  247,  254 
Nymph  (Zool.),  139,  146 

Object  of  this  book,  ix-xv 
of  instinct,  146-52,  163,  175-9 
of  intellect,  146-52,  161-5,  175, 
179,  190-1,  199-200,  237,  250, 
252,  270,  273,  298-304,  307-8, 
311-2,  354,  359 

internality  of  subject  in,  the 
condition  of  knowledge  of  re- 
ality, 307-8,  317-8,  359 
of  knowledge,  147,  148-9,  159-60 
idea  of,  contrasted  with  that 


Object  {Continued) 

of  universal  interaction,  11, 
188-9,  207-8 

of  philosophy  as  contrasted 
with  object  of  science,  195-6, 
220-1,  225-6,  227,  239,  251,  270, 
273,  297-9,  305-6,  347 
of  science,  329,  332-3,  335-6 
Obliteration  of  outlines  in  the 
real,  11,  188,  189,  207-8 
Oenothera  Lamarckiana,  63,  85-6 
Old,  growing.  See  Age 
the,  is  the  object  of  the  intel- 
lect, 163,  164,  199,  270 
One  and  many  in  the  idea  of  in- 
dividuality, X,  258.  See  Unity 
Ontological  argument  in  Kant, 
284 

Opposition  of  the  two  ultimate 
cosmic  movements,  128-9,  175- 
6,  179,  186,  201,  203,  238,  248, 
254,  259,  261,  267.  See  In- 
verse relation  of  the  physi- 
cal and  psychical 
Orchids,  instincts  of,  170 
Order  and  action,  226-7 
complementarity  of  the  two  or- 
ders, 145-6,  173-4,  221-2.  See 
Order,  Mutual  inversion  of 
the  two  orders 

mutual  contingency  of  the  two 
orders,  231,  235 

and  disorder,  40,  103-4,  220-2, 
225-6,  231-6,  274 
mutual  inversion  of  the  two 
orders,  186,  201,  202,  206-9, 
211,  212,  216-8,  219-21,  222-3, 
225-6,  230,  232,  235,  236,  238, 
240,  245-8,  256,  257,  258,  264, 
270,  274,  313,  330 
mathematical,  153,  209-11,  217- 
9,  223-6,  230-3,  236,  245,  251, 
270,  330-1 

of  nature,  225-6,  231,  233 
as  satisfaction,  222,  223,  274 
vital,  94-5,  164,  222-7,  230,  235, 
236,  237,  330-1 
willed,  224,  239 

Organ  and  function,  88-91,  93-4, 
95,  132,  140,  141,  157,  161-2 
Organic  destruction  and  physico- 
chemistry,  226 

substance,  131,  140,  141-2,  149, 
162-3,  195-6,  240  note,  255,  267 
world,  cleft  between,  and  the 
inorganic,  190,  191,  196,  197-8 
world,  harmony  of,  50-1,  103, 
104,  116,  118,  126-7 
world,  instinct  the  procedure 
of,  165 


INDEX 


397 


Organism  and  action,  123-4,  125, 
174,  253,  254,  300-1 
ambiguity  of  primitive,  99,  112, 
113,  116,  129,  130 
association  of  organisms,  260 
change  and  the,  301,  302-3 
complementarity  of  intelligence 
and  instinct  in  the,  141-2,  150, 
181,  184,  185 

complexity  of  the,  162,  250,  252, 
253,  260 

consciousness  and  the.  111, 
145,  179,  180,  262,  270 
contingency  of  the  actual  chem- 
ical nature  of  the,  255,  257 
differentiation  of  parts  in,  252, 
260.  See  Organism,  complex- 
ity of 

extension  of,  by  artificial  in- 
struments, 141,  161 
freedom  the  property  of  every, 
130,  131 

function  of,  26,  27,  79,  80,  85, 
87,  88,  93-4,  106-110,  113,  114, 
117,  120,  121,  126-7,  128,  136, 
173-5,  230,  231,  246,  247,  250, 
251,  254,  255,  256,  258,  270 
function  and  structure,  55,  61, 
62,  69,  74,  75,  76-7,  86,  88-91, 
93-4,  95,  96-7,  118-9,  132,  139, 
140,  157-8,  161-3,  250,  252,  256 
generality  typified  by  similar- 
ity among  organisms,  223, 
224,  228-9,  230 
hive  as,  166 

and  individuation,  x,  12,  13,  15, 
23,  26-7,  42,  149,  195-6,  225-6, 
228-9,  259,  260,  261,  270 
mutual  interpenetration  of  or- 
ganisms, 177-8 

mechanism  of  the,  31,  92-3,  94 
philosophy  and  the,  195-6 
unity  of  the,  176-8 
Organization  of  action,  142,  145, 
147-8,  150,  181,  184,  185 
of  duration,  5-6,  15,  25,  26 
explosive  character  of,  92 
and  instinct,  24,  138-46,  150, 

165-7,  171-2,  173,  176,  192-3, 
194,  264 

and  intellect,  161-2 
and  manufacture,  92,  93,  94-5, 
96,  126-8 

is  the  modus  vivendi  between 
the  antagonistic  cosmic  cur- 
rents, 181,  250,  254 
of  motion,  310 
and  perception,  226-7 
Originality  of  the  willed  order, 
224 


Orthogenesis,  69,  86-7 
Oscillation  between  association 
and  individuation,  259,  261. 
See  Societies 
of  ether,  301-2 

of  instinct  and  intelligence 
about  a mean  position,  136 
of  pendulum,  illustrating  space 
and  time  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, 318-9,  320 

between  representation  of  inner 
and  outer  reality,  279-80 
of  sensible  reality  in  ancient 
philosophy  about  being,  316-8 
Outlines  of  perception  the  plan  of 
action,  5,  11,  12,  93,  188,  189, 
204-5,  206-7,  226-7,  228-9,  230, 
250,  299-300,  306 
Oxygen,  114,  254,  255 

Paleontology,  24-5,  129,  139 
Paleozoic  era,  102 
Parallelism,  psycho-physiological, 
180,  350,  351,  355,  356 
Paralyzing  instinct  in  hymenop- 
tera,  139-40,  146,  172,  174-5 
Parasites,  106,  108,  109,  111-13, 

134-5 

Parasitism,  132 
Passivity,  222-4 

Past,  subsistence  of,  in  present, 
4,  20-3,  26-7,  108,  199-202 
Peckham,  173-4  note 
Pecten,  illustrating  identical 
structures  in  divergent  lines 
of  evolution,  62,  63,  75 
Pedagogical  and  social  nature  of 
negation,  287-97 

Pedagogy  and  the  function  of  the 
intellect,  165 

Penetration,  reciprocal,  161-2.  See 
Interpenetration 

Perception  and  action,  4-5,  11,  12, 
93,  188,  189,  206,  226-7,  228-9, 
300-1,  306-7 

and  becoming,  176-7,  303-6 
cinematographical  character  of, 
206-7,  249,  251,  331-2 
distinctness  of,  226-7,  250 
and  geometry,  205,  230 
in  molluscs,  188 
and  organization,  226-7 
prolonged  in  intellect,  161-2,  273 
reaction  in,  264 
and  recollection,  180,  181 
refracts  reality,  204,  238,  359-60 
rhythm  of,  299-300,  301 
and  science,  168 
Permanence  an  illusion,  299-301 


398 


INDEX 


Peron,  80 

Perrier,  Ed.,  260  note 
Personality,  absolute  reality  of, 
269 

concentration  of,  201,  202 
and  matter,  269,  270 
the  object  of  intuition,  268 
tension  of,  199,  200,  201 
Perthes,  Boucher  de,  137 
Phaedrus,  156  note 
Phagocytes  and  external  finality, 
42 

Phagocytosis  and  growing  old,  18 
Phantom  ideas  and  problems,  177, 
27;?,  283,  296 

Philosophical  explanation  con- 
trasted with  scientific  explan- 
ation, 168 

Philosophy  and  art,  176-7 
and  biology,  43-4,  194-6 
and  experience,  197-8 
function  of  29-30,  84-5,  93-4, 

168,  173-4,  194-7,  198,  268, 

269,  369-70 
history  of,  238 

incompletely  conscious  of  it- 
self, 207-8.  209 
individual  mind  in,  191 
and  intellect,  ix-xv 
intellect  and  intuition  in,  238 
of  intuition,  176-7,  191-4,  196, 
197,  277 

method  of,  191-2,  194,  195,  239 
object  of,  239 
and  the  organism,  195-6 
and  physics,  194,  208 
and  psychology,  194,  196 
and  science,  175,  196-7,  208,  345, 
370 

See  Ancient  philosophy.  Cos- 
mology, Finalism,  Mechanis- 
tic philosophy.  Metaphysics, 
Modern  philosophy,  Post- 
Kantian  philosophy 
Phonograph  illustrating  “unwind- 
ing” cause,  73 

Phosphorescence,  consciousness 
compared  to,  262 
Photograph,  illustrating  the  na- 
ture of  the  intellectual  view 
of  reality,  31,  304-5 
Photography,  instantaneous,  il- 
lustrating the  mechanism  of 
the  intellect,  331-2,  333 
Physical  existence,  as  contrasted 
with  logical,  276,  297-8,  328, 
361 

laws,  their  precise  form  artifi- 
cial, 218,  219,  229,  240-1 


Physical  {Continued) 

laws  and  the  negative  cosrjio 
movement,  218 

operations  the  object  of  intelli- 
gence, 175,  250 

order,  imitation  of,  by  the  vital, 
230 

science,  176-7 

Physico-chemistry  and  organic 
destruction,  226 

and  biology,  25-6,  29-30,  34.  35, 
36,  55,  57,  98,  .194 
Physics,  ancient,  “logic  spoiled,” 
320,  321-2 

of  ancient  philosophy,  315,  320, 
321-2,  355 

of  Aristotle,  228  note,  324  nofe,i 
331,  332 

and  deduction,  213 
of  Galileo,  357,  369-70 
and  individuality  of  bodies,  188, 
208 

as  inverted  psychics,  202 
and  logic,  319-20,  321 
and  metaphysics,  194,  208 
and  mutability,  245 
success  of,  218,  219 
Pigment-spot  and  adaptation,  60, 
61,  71-3,  76-7 
and  heredity,  83,  84 
Pinguicula,  certain  animal  char- 
acteristics of,  107 
Plan,  motionless,  of  action  the 
object  of  intellect,  155,  298-9, 
301-2,  303 

Planets,  life  in  other,  256 
Plants  and  animals  in  evolution, 
105-39,  142-3,  144,  145-6,  147, 
168,  169-70,  181,  182,  183-4,  185, 
254,  267 

complementarity  of,  to  animals, 
183-4,  185,  267 

consciousness  of,  109,  111,  113, 
120,  128-35,  142-3,  144,  181. 

182,  292.  See  Torpor,  Sleep 
function  of,  107-9,  113,  114,  117, 
246,  247,  254,  256 
function  and  structure  in,  67, 
77-8,  79 

individuation  in,  12 
instinct  in,  170,  171 
and  mobility,  108,  109,  111-13, 
118-9,  129,  130,  135-6 
parallelism  of  evolution  vith 
animals,  59-60,  106-8,  116 
supporters  of  all  life,  271 
variation  of,  85,  86 
Plasma,  continuity  of  germina- 
tive,  25-6,  42,  78-83 


INDEX 


399 


Plastic  substances,  255 
Plato,  49,  156,  191,  210  note,  316, 
318,  319,  320,  321,  327,  330, 

347,  349 

Platonic  ideas,  49,  315-6,  321,  322, 
327,  330,  352 

Plotinus,  210  note,  314-5,  323,  324 
note,  349,  352,  353 
Plurality,  confused,  of  life,  257. 

See  Interpenetration 
Poem,  sounds  of,  distinct  to  per- 
ception; the  sense  indivisible 
to  intuition,  209 
illustrating  creation  of  matter, 
240,  319-20 

TTOiTjTtKOS,  VOUS,  Of  Aristotle,  322 
Polymorphism  of  ants,  bees,  and 
wasps,  140 

of  insect  societies,  157 
Polyzoism,  260 

Positive  reality,  208,  212.  See 

Reality 

Positivity,  materiality  an  inver- 
sion or  interruption  of,  219, 
246,  247-8,  319-20 
Possible  activity  as  a factor  in 
consciousness,  11,  12,  96,  144, 
145,  146-7,  158-9,  165,  179,  180, 
181,  189,  264,  368 
existence,  290,  295 
Post-Kantian  philosophy,  362,  363 
Potential  activity.  See  Possible 
activity 
genera,  226 

knowledge,  142-7,  150,  166 
Potentiality,  life  as  an  immense, 
258,  270 

zone  of,  surrounding  acts,  179, 
180,  181,  264.  See  Possible 
activity 

Powers  of  life,  complementarity 
of,  xii,  xiii,  26,  27,  51-5,  97-105, 
no,  113,  116-8,  119,  126-7,  131- 
6,  140-3,  176,  177,  183,  184, 
246,  254,  255,  257,  266,  270, 
343,  345 

Practical  nature  of  perception  and 
its  prolongation  in  intellect 
and  science,  137-41,  150,  193- 
4,  196,  197,  206,  207-8,  218, 
247-8,  273,  281,  305,  306-7,  328, 
329 

Preestablished  harmony,  205-6, 
207 

Present,  creation  of,  by  past,  5, 
20-3,  26-7,  167,  199-202 
Prevision.  See  Foreseeing 
Primacy  of  nervous  system,  120- 
6,  252 


Primary  instinct,  138-9,  168 
IPrimitive  organisms,  ambiguous 
forms  of,  99,  112,  113,  116,  129, 
130 

“Procession”  in  Alexandrian  phi- 
losophy, 323 

Progress,  adaptation  and,  101  ff. 
evolutionary,  50,  133,  134,  138, 
141-2,  173-4,  175,  185,  264-5, 
266 

Prose  and  verse,  illustrating  the 
two  kinds  of  orders,  221,  232 
Protophytes,  colonizing  of,  259 
Protoplasm,  circulation  of,  32-3, 
108 

and  senescence,  18,  19 
imitation  of,  32-3,  85 
primitive,  and  the  nervous  sys- 
tem, 124,  126-7 

of  primitive  organisms,  99,  108, 
109 

and  the  vital  principle,  42-3 
Protozoa,  association  of,  259-61 
ageing  of,  16 
of  ambiguous  form,  112 
and  individuation,  14,  259-61 
mechanical  explanation  of 
movements  of,  33 
and  nervous  system,  126 
reproduction  of,  14 
Pseudo-ideas  and  problems,  177, 
277,  283,  296 

Pseudoneuroptera,  division  of 
labor  among,  140 
of  Aristotle,  350 
of  Plotinus,  210  note 
Psychic  activity,  two-fold  nature 
of,  136,  140-1,  142-3 
life,  continuity  of,  1-11,  29-30 
Psychical  existence  contrasted 
with  logical,  276,  297-8,  327- 
8,  361 

nature  of  life,  257 
Psychics  inverted  physics,  201, 
202.  See  Inverse  relation  of 
the  physical  and  psychical 
Psychology  and  deduction,  212-3 
and  the  genesis  of  intellect,  187, 
194,  195-6,  197 

intuitional  cosmology  as  re- 
versed, 208-9 

Psycho  -physiological  parallelism, 
180,  350,  351,  355,  356 
Puberty,  illustrating  crises  in 
evolution,  19,  320-1 

Qualitative,  evolutionary  and  ex- 
tensive becoming,  313 
motion,  302-3,  304,  311 


400 


INDEX 


Qualities,  acts,  forms,  the  classes 
of  representation,  303,  314 
bodies  as  bundles  of,  300-1 
coincidence  of,  309 
and  movements,  299-300 
and  natural  , geometry,  211 
superimposition  of,  in  induc- 
tion, 216 

Quality  is  change,  299-300 
in  Eleatic  philosophy,  314-5 
and  quantity  in  ancient  phi- 
losophy, 323-4 

and  quantity  in  modern  phi- 
losophy, 350 
and  rhythm,  300-2 

Quaternary  substances,  121 

Quinton,  Rene,  134  note 

Radius-vector,  Heliocentric,  in 
Kepler’s  laws,  334 

Rank,  evolutionary,  50,  133-5,  173- 
4,  265 

Reaction,  role  of,  in  perception, 
226-7 

Ready-made  categories,  x,  xiv, 
48,  237,  250,  251,  273,  311,  321, 
329,  354,  359 

Real  activity  as  distinguished 
from  possible,  145 
common-sense  is  continuous  ex- 
perience of  the,  213 
continuity  of  the,  302,  329 
dichotomy  of  the,  in  modern 
philosophy,  349 

imitation  of  the , by  intelli- 
gence, 90,  204,  258,  270,  307, 
355 

obliteration  of  outlines  in  the, 
11-2,  188,  189,  207-8 
representation  of  the,  by 
science,  203-4 

Realism,  ancient,  231-2 

Realists  and  idealists  alike  as- 
sume possibility  of  absence  of 
order,  220,  231-2 

Reality,  absolute,  198,  228-9,  230, 
269,  359-60,  361 
as  action,  47,  191-2,  194-5,  249 
degrees  of,  323,  327 
in  dogmatic  metaphysics,  196 
double  form  of,  179-80,  216,  230- 
1,  236 

as  duration,  11-2,  217,  272 
as  flux,  165,  250,  251,  294,  337, 
338,  342 

and  the  frames  of  the  intellect, 
363-4,  365.  See  Frames  of  the 
understanding 
as  freedom,  247 


Reality  (Continued) 
of  genera  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, 226-7 
is  growth,  239 

imitation  of,  by  the  intellect, 
89-90,  365 

and  the  intellect,  52,  89-90,  153, 
191,  192,  314-5,  355-6 
intelligible,  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, 317 

knowledge  of,  307-8,  317,  358-9 
and  mechanism,  351,  354-5 
as  movement,  90,  155,  301-2,  312 
and  not-being,  276,  280,  285 
of  the  person,  269 
refraction  of,  through  the  forms 
of  perception,  204,  238,  359- 
60 

and  science,  194,  196,  198,  199, 
203-4,  206-8,  354,  357 
sensible,  in  ancient  philosophy, 
314,  317,  321,  327,  328,  352 
symbol  of,  xi,  30-1,  71,  88-9, 
93-4,  195-6,  197,  209,  240,  342, 
360-1,  369 

undefinable  conceptually,  13, 
49 

unknowable  in  Kant,  205 
unknowable  in  Spencer,  xi 
views  of,  30-1,  71,  84,  88,  199, 
201,  206-7,  225-6,  249,  258,  273, 
300-7,  311,  314,  331-2,  342,  351, 
352 

Reason  and  life,  7,  8,  48,  161 
cannot  transcend  itself,  193-4 
Reasoning  and  acting,  192-3 
and  experience,  203-4 
and  matter,  204-5,  208-9 
on  matter  and  life,  7,  8 
Recollection,  dependence  of,  on 
special  circumstances,  167, 
180 

in  the  dream,  202,  207-8 
and  perception,  180,  181 
Recommencing,  continual,  of  the 
present  in  the  state  of  relax- 
ation, 201 

Recomposing,  decomposing  and, 
the  characteristic  powers  of 
intellect,  157,  251 
Record,  false  comparison  of 
memory  with,  5 
Reflection,  158-9 
Reflex  activity,  110 
compound,  173-4,  175-6 
Refraction  of  the  idea  through 
matter  or  non-being,  316-7 
of  reality  through  forms  of  per- 
ception, 204,  238,  359-60 


INDEX  401 


Regeneration  and  individuality, 
13,  14 

Register  of  time,  16,  20,  37 

Reinke,  42  note 

Relation,  Imprint  of  relations  and 
laws  upon  consciousness,  188 
as  law,  229,  230-1 
and  thing,  147-52,  156-7,  160, 
161,  187,  202,  352,  357 

Relativism,  epistemological,  196, 
197,  230 

Relativity  of  immobility,  155 
of  the  intellect,  xi,  48-9,  152, 
153,  187,  195-6,  197-8,  199,  219, 
273,  306-7,  360-1 
of  knowledge,  152,  191,  230 
of  perception,  226-7,  228,  300-1 

Relaxation  in  the  dream  state, 
201,  209-10 

and  extension,  201,  207-8,  209, 
210,  212,  218,  223,  245 
and  intellect,  200,  207-8,  209, 
212,  218 

logic  a,  of  virtual  geometry,  212 
matter  a,  of  unextended  into 
extended,  218 

memory  vanishes  in  complete, 
200 

necessity  as,  of  freedom,  218 
present  continually  recom- 
mences in  the  state  of  relaxa- 
tion, 200 

will  vanishes  in  complete,  200, 
207-8 

See  Tension 

Releasing  cause,  73,  74,  115,  118- 
9,  120 

Repetition  and  generalization, 
230-1,  232 

and  fabrication,  44-5,  46,  155-8 
and  intellect,  156-7,  199,  214-6 
of  states,  5-6,  7-8,  28-9,  30,  36, 
45-6,  47 

in  the  vital  and  In  the  mathe- 
matical order,  225,  226,  230, 
231 

Representation  and  action,  143-4, 
145,  180 

classes  of:  qualities,  forms, 
acts,  302-3,  314 
and  consciousness,  143-4 
of  motion,  169-60,  303-4,  305, 
306-7,  308,  313,  315,  344-5 
of  the  Nought,  273-80,  281-4, 
289-317,  327 

Represented  or  internalized  ac- 
tion distinguished  from  ex- 
ternalized action,  144-7,  158- 
9,  165 


Reproduction  and  individuation, 
13,  14 

Resemblance.  See  Similarity 
Reservoir,  organism  a,  of  energy, 
115,  116,  125-6,  245,  246,  254 
Rest  and  motion  in  Zeno,  308-12 
Retrogression  in  evolution,  133, 
134 

Retrospection  the  function  of  in- 
tellect, 47-8,  237 

Reversed  psychology:  intuitional 
cosmology,  208 

Rhizocephala  and  animal  mobil- 
ity, 111 

Rhumbler,  34  note 
Rhythm  of  duration,  11-2,  127-8, 
300-1,  345-7 

intelligence  adopts  the,  of  ac- 
tion, 305-6 

of  perception,  299-300,  301 
and  quality,  301 
scanning  the,  of  the  universe 
the  function  of  science,  346-7 
of  science  must  coincide  with 
that  of  action,  320 
of  the  universe  untranslatable 
into  scientific  formulae,  337 
Rings  of  arthropods,  132-3 
Ripening,  creative  evolution  as, 
47-8,  340-1 
Romanes,  139 
Roule,  27  note 
Roy  (Le),  Ed.,  218  note 

Salamandra  maculata,  vision  in, 
75 

Salensky,  75  note 
Same,  function  of  intellect  con- 
necting same  with  same,  199- 
200,  233,  770 

Samter  and  Heymons,  72  note 
Saporta  (De),  112  note 
Savage’s  sense  of  distance  and 
direction,  212 

Skepticism  or  dogmatism  the 
dilemma  of  any  systematic 
metaphysics,  195-6,  197,  230-1 
Schisms  in  the  primitive  impul- 
sion of  life,  254-5,  257.  See 
Divergent  lines  of  evolution 
ScholasUcism,  370 
Science* and  action,  93,  196,  198, 
328-9 

ancient,  and  modem,  329-37, 
342-5,  357 

astronomy,  ancient  and  modem, 
334-5,  336 

cartesian  geometry  and  ancient 
geometry,  333-4 


402 


INDEX 


Science  {Continued) 
cinematographical  character  of 
modem,  329,  330,  336-7,  340- 
1,  342,  345-8 

conventionality  of  a certain  as- 
pect of,  206-7 
and  deduction,  212-3 
and  discontinuity,  161-2 
function  of,  92,  167-8,  173-4, 

176-7,  193-4,  195-6,  198-9,  328- 
9,  346-7 

Galileo’s  influence  on  modern, 
333-4,  335 

and  instinct,  169,  170,  173-4, 

175,  193-5 

and  intelligence,  176,  177,  193-6 
Kepler’s  influence  on  modern, 
334 

and  matter,  194-5,  206-7,  208 
modern.  See  Modern  science 
object  of,  195-6,  220,  221,  251, 
270-1,  273,  296-8,  306-7,  328-9, 
332-3,  335-6,  347-8 
and  perception,  168 
and  philosophy,  175-6,  196-7, 

208-9,  344,  370 
physical.  See  Physics 
and  reality.  See  Reality  and 
science 

and  time,  8-13,  20,  335-8 
unity  of,  195-6,  197,  228-9,  230, 
321-2,  323,  344-5,  347-8,  349, 
354,  355-6,  359-60,  362-3 
Scientific  concepts,  338-40 

explanation  and  philosophical 
explanation,  168 
formulae,  337 
geometry,  161,  211 
knowledge,  193-4,  196-7,  198, 

199,  207,  208,  218 
Sclerosis  and  aging,  19 
Scolia,  paralyzing  instinct  in,  172 
Scope  of  action  indefinitely  ex- 
tended by  intelligent  instru- 
ments, 141 

of  Galileo’s  physics,  357,  370 
Scott,  63  note 

Sea-urchin  and  individuality,  13 
Seailles,  29  note 
Secondary  instincts,  139,  168 
Sectioning  of  becoming  in  the 
philosophy  of  Ideas,  317-8 
of  matter  by  perception,  206-7, 
249,  251 

Sedgwick,  260  note 
Seeing  and  willing,  coincidence 
of,  in  intuition,  237 
Selection,  natural,  54,  56-7,  59- 
60,  61-2,  63,  64,  68,  95-6,  169, 
170 


Self,  coincidence  of,  with,  199 
existence  of,  means  change,  1 
ff. 

knowledge  of,  1 ff. 

Senescence,  15-23,  26-7,  42-3 
Sensation  and  space,  202 
Sense-perception.  See  Percep- 
tion 

Sensible  flux,  316-7,  318,  321,  322, 
327,  343,  345 

intuition  and  ultra-intellectual, 
360-1 

object,  apogee  of,  342-3,  344-5, 
349 

reality,  314,  317,  319,  327,  328, 
352 

Sensibility,  forms  of,  361 
Sensitive  plant,  in  illustration  of 
mobility  in  plants,  109 
Sensori -motor  system.  See  Ner- 
vous system 

Sensuous  manifold,  205,  221,  232, 
235,  236 

Sentiment,  poetic,  in  illustration 
of  individuation,  258,  259 
Serkovski,  259  note 
Serpula,  in  illustration  of  identi- 
cal evolution  in  divergent 
lines,  96 

Sexual  cells,  14,  26,  27,  79-81 
Sexuality  parallel  in  plants  and 
animals,  58-60,  119-21 
Shaler,  N.  S.,  133  note,  184  note 
Sheath,  calcareous,  in  illustration 
of  animal  tendency  to  mo- 
bility, 130-1 

Signs,  function  of,  158,  159,  160 
the  instrument  of  science,  329- 
30 

Sigwart,  287  note 
Silurian  epoch,  failure  of  certain 
species  to  evolve  since,  102 
Similarity  among  individuals  of 
same  species  the  tJT)e  of  gen- 
erality, 224-6,  228-9,  230-1 
and  mechanical  causality,  44, 
45 

Simultaneity,  to  measure  time  is 
merely  to  count  simultanei- 
ties, 9,  336,  337,  341 
Sinuousness  of  evolution,  71,  98, 
102,  212-3 

Sitaris,  unconscious  knowledge 
of,  146,  147 

Situation  and  magnitude,  prob- 
lems of,  211 

Sketching  movements,  function 
of  consciousness,  207-8 
Sleep,  129-31,  135,  ISl 
Snapshot,  in  illustration  of  intel- 
lectual representation  of  mo- 


INDEX 


403 


Snapshot  {Continued) 

tion,  305,  306,  313,  315,  344. 
See  View  of  reality,  Cinema- 
togrraphical  character,  etc. 
form  defined  as  a,  of  transition, 
301-2,  317,  318,  321-2,  346 
Social  instinct,  101,  140,  158,  171-2 
life,  138,  140,  158,  265 
and  pedagogical  character  of 
negation,  287-97 

Societies,  101,  131-2,  158,  171-2, 
259 

Society  and  the  individual,  260, 
265 

Solar  energy  stored  by  plants,  re- 
leased by  animals,  246,  254 
systems,  241-4,  246  note,  256, 
270 

systems,  life  in  other,  266 
Solid,  concepts  analogous  to 
solids,  ix 

intellect  as  a solid  nucleus,  193, 
194 

the  material  of  construction 
and  the  object  of  the  intel- 
lect, 153,  154,  161,  162,  251 
Solidarity  between  brain  and 
consciousness,  180,  262 
of  the  parts  of  matter,  203,  207- 
8,  241,  271 

Solidification  operated  by  the  un- 
derstanding, 249 
oC)fia  in  Aristotle,  350 
Somnambulism  and  conscious- 
ness, 144,  145,  159 
Soul  and  body,  350 
and  cell,  269 
creation  of,  270 
Space  and  action,  203 
in  ancient  philosophy,  318,  319 
and  concepts,  160-1,  163,  174-5, 
176-7,  188-9,  257-9 
geometrical,  203 
homogeneity  of,  156,  212 
and  induction,  216 
in  Kant’s  philosophy,  205,  206, 
207,  244 

in  Leibniz’s  philosophy,  351 
and  matter,  189,  202-13,  244, 

257,  264,  361-2,  368 
and  time  in  Kant’s  philosophy, 
205-6 

unity  and  multiplicity  determi- 
nations of,  357-9 
See  Extension 

Spatial ity  atmosphere  of,  bath- 
ing intelligence,  205 
degradation  of  the  extra-spa- 
tial, 207 

and  distinctness,  203,  207,  244, 

250,  257-9 


Spatiality  {Continued) 

and  geometrical  space,  203,  211, 
213,  218 

and  mathematical  order,  208, 
209 

Special  instincts  and  environ- 
ment, 138,  168,  192-3,  194 
and  recollections,  167,  168,  180 
as  variations  on  a theme,  167, 
172,  264 

Species,  articulate,  133 
evolution  of,  247,  255,  269 
and  external  finality,  128-9,  130- 
1,  132,  266 
fossil,  102 

human,  as  goal  of  evolution, 
266,  267 

human,  styled  homo  faber,  139 
and  instinct,  140,  167,  170-2, 

264 

and  life,  167 

similarity  within,  223-6,  228-9, 
230-1 

Speculation,  dead-locks  in,  xii, 
155,  156,  312,  313-4 
object  of  philosophy,  44,  152, 
196,  198,  220,  225-6,  227,  251, 
270-1,  273,  297-8,  306-7,  317, 
347-8 

Spencer,  Herbert,  xi,  xiv,  78-9, 
153,  188,  189,  190,  364,  365 

Spencer’s  evolutionism,  corres- 
pondence between  mind  and 
matter  in,  368 
cosmogony  in,  188 
imprint  of  relations  and  laws 
upon  consciousness  in,  188 
matter  in,  365,  367 
mind  in,  365,  367 

Spheres,  concentric,  in  Aristotle’s 
philosophy,  328 

Sphex,  paralyzing  instinct  in, 
172-5 

Spiders  and  paralyzing  hymenop- 
tera,  172 

Spinal  cord,  110 

Spinoza,  the  adequate  and  the 
inadequate,  353 
cause,  277 
dogmatism,  356,  357 
eternity,  353 
extension,  350 
God,  351,  357 
intuitionism,  347 
mechanism,  348,  352,  355,  356 
time,  362 

Spirit,  251,  269,  270 

Spirituality  and  materiality,  128- 
9,  201-3,  316-7,  208-9,  210-1, 
212-3,  217,  218,  219,  222-3, 

237,  238,  245,  247-8,  249,  251, 


404 


INDEX 


254,  256,  257,  259,  261,  267, 
270-1,  272,  276,  343 
Spontaneity  of  life,  86,  237.  See 
Freedom 

and  mechanism,  40 
in  vegetables,  109 
and  the  willed  order,  224 
Sport  (biol.),  63 

Starch,  in  the  function  of  vege- 
table kingdom,  114 
States  of  becoming,  1,  13,  163, 
247-8,  299,  300,  307 
Static  character  of  the  intellect, 
155-6,  163,  274,  298 
views  of  becoming,  273 
Stehasny,  124  note 
Steam-engine  and  bronze,  paral- 
lel as  epoch-marking,  138-9 
Stentor  and  individuality,  260 
Stoics,  316 

Storing  of  solar  energy  by  plants, 
246,  253-6 

Strain  of  bow  and  indivisibility 
of  motion,  308 

Stream,  duration  as  a,  39,  338 
Structure  and  function.  See 
Function  and  structure 
Identical,  in  divergent  lines  of 
evolution,  55,  60,  61-2,  63,  69, 
73-4,  75,  76-7,  83,  86,  87,  118-9 
Subject  and  attribute,  147-8 
Substance,  albuminoid,  120-1 
continuity  of  living,  162 
organic,  121,  131,  140,  142,  149, 
162-3,  195-7  note,  255,  267 
in  Spinoza's  philosophy,  350 
ternary  substances,  121 
Substantives,  adjectives,  verbs, 
correspond  to  the  three  clas- 
ses of  representation,  302-4 
Substitution  essential  to  repre- 
sentation of  the  Nought,  281, 
283-4,  289-90,  291,  294,  296 
Success  of  physics,  218,  219-20 
and  superiority,  133,  264-5 
Succession  in  time,  10,  339,  340, 
341,  345.  Cf.  Juxtaposition 
Successors  of  Kant,  363,  364 
Sudden  mutations,  28,  62-3,  64-5, 
68-9 

Sun,  115,  241,  323 
Superaddition  of  existence  upon 
nothingness,  276 
of  order  upon  disorder,  236, 
275 

Superimposition.  See  Measure- 
ment of  qualities.  In  induc- 
tion, 216 

Superiority,  evolutionary,  133-5, 
173,  174-5 


Superman,  267 
Supraconsciousness,  261 
Survival  of  the  fit,  169.  See  Nat- 
ural selection 

Swim,  learning  to,  as  instinctive 
learning,  193,  194 
Symbol,  the  concept  is  a,  161, 
209,  341-2 

of  reality,  xi,  30-1,  71,  88-9,  93, 
195-6,  210,  240,  342,  360-1, 

369-70 

Symbolic  knowledge  of  life,  199, 
342,  360 

Symbolism,  176,  180,  360 
Sympathetic  or  intuitive  know- 
ledge, 209,  210.  342 
Sympathy,  instinct  is,  164,  168, 
172-8,  342-3.  See  Divination, 
Feeling,  Inspiration 
Systematic  metaphysics,  dilemma 
of,  195,  196,  230-1 
contrasted  with  intuitional, 
191-2,  193-4,  238,  269,  270,  277, 
346-8 

postulate  of,  190,  195 
Systematization  of  physics,  Lleb- 
niz’s  philosophy,  347 
Systems,  isolated,  9-13,  203,  214, 
215,  241,  242,  342,  347-9 

Tangent  and  curve,  analogy  with 
deduction  and  the  moral 
sphere,  214 

analogy  with  physico-chemistry 
and  life,  31 
Tarakevitch,  124  note 
Teleology.  See  Finalism 
Tendency,  antagonistic  tendencies 
of  life,  13,  98,  103,  113,  135, 
150 

antagonistic  tendencies  in  de- 
velopment of  nervous  system, 
124-5 

complementary  tendencies  of 
life,  51,  103,  135,  150,  168,  246 
to  dissociation,  260 
divergent  tendencies  of  life,  54, 
89,  99,  101,  107-8,  109-10,  112, 
116-8,  134,  135,  150,  181,  246, 
254-8 

to  individuation,  13 
life  a tendehcy  to  act  on  inert 
matter,  96 

toward  mobility  in  animals,  109, 
110,  113,  127-8,  129-33,  135, 
181,  182 

the  past  exists  in  present  ten- 
dency, 5 
to  reproduce,  13 
of  species  to  change,  85-86 


INDEX 


405 


Tendency  (Continued) 

mathematical  symbols  of  ten- 
dencies, 22,  23 

toward  systems,  in  matter,  10 
transmission  of,  80-1 
a vital  property  is  a,  13 
Tension  and  extension,  236,  245 
and  freedom,  200-2,  207-8,  223, 
237,  239,  300-2 

matter  the  inversion  of  vital, 
239 

of  personality,  199-200,  201, 

207-8,  237,  239,  300 
Ternary  substances,  121 
Theology  consequent  upon  the 
philosophy  of  Ideas,  316 
Theoretic  fallacies,  263,  264 
knowledge  and  instinct,  177, 
268 

knowledge  and  intellect,  155, 
177,  179,  238,  270,  342,  343 
Theorizing  not  the  original  func- 
tion of  the  intellect,  154-5 
Theory  of  knowledge,  xiii,  178, 
180,  184-5,  197,  204,  207-8,  209, 
228-9,  231 

of  life,  xiii,  178,  180,  197 
Thermodynamics,  241-2.  See 
Conservation  of  energy.  Deg- 
radation of  energy 
Thesis  and  antithesis,  205 
Thing  as  distinguished  from  mo- 
tion, 187,  202,  247-8,  249,  299- 
300 

as  distinguished  from  relation, 
147,  148,  150,  152,  158-9,  159- 
60,  161,  187,  202,  352,  356-7 
and  mind,  206 

as  solidification  operated  by 
understanding,  249 
Thing-in-itself,  205,  206,  230-1, 
312 

Timaeus,  318  nofe 
Time  and  the  absolute,  240,  *241, 
297-8,  339,  343-4 
abstract,  21,  22,  37,  39 
articulations  of  real,  331-3 
as  force,  16,  45-6,  47,  51,  103, 
339 

homogeneous,  17,  18,  163-4, 

331-3 

as  independent  variable,  20, 
335-7 

interval  of,  9,  22,  23 
as  invention,  341-2 
in  Leibniz’s  philosophy,  351, 
352,  362 

and  logic,  4,  277 
and  simultaneity,  9,  336,  337, 
341 


Time  (Continued) 
in  modern  science  321-37, 
841-5 

and  space  in  Kant,  205 
and  space  in  ancient  philoso- 
phy, 318,  319.  See  Duration 
Tools  and  intellect,  137-41,  150-1. 
See  Implement 

Torpor,  in  evolution,  109,  111,  113, 
114  note,  120,  128-35,  181,  292 
Tortoise,  Achilles  and  the,  in 
Zeno,  311 

Touch,  science  expresses  all  per- 
ception as  touch,  168 
is  to  vision  as  intelligence  to 
instinct,  169 

Track  laid  by  motion  along  its 
course,  309-12,  337 
Transcendental  Aesthetic,  203 
Transformation,  32,  72,  73,  131, 
231,  263 

Transformism,  23-5 
Transition,  form  a snapshot  view 
of,  301-2,  316-7,  318,  321,  344-5 
Transmissibility  of  acquired  char- 
acters, 75-84,  87,  168,  169,  172- 
3,  225-6,  230-1 

Transmission  of  the  vital  impe- 
tus, 26,  27,  79,  85,  87,  88,  93-4, 
110,  126-7,  128,  230,  231,  246, 
255,  256,  257,  259,  270 
Trigger-action  of  motor  mechan- 
isms, 272 

Triton,  Regeneration  in,  75 
Tropism  and  psychical  activity, 
35  note 

Truth  seized  in  intuition,  318-20 

Unconscious  effort,  170 
instinct,  142-3,  144,  145-6,  147, 
166 

knowledge,  145-8,  150-1 
Unconsciousness,  two  kinds  of,  144 
Undefinable,  reality,  13,  48 
Understanding,  absoluteness  of, 
153-4,  190-1,  197-8,  199,  200 
and  action,  ix,  xl,  179 
genesis  of  the,  Ix-xv,  49,  189, 
207-8,  257-9,  359,  361-2 
and  geometry,  ix,  xii 
and  innateness  of  categories, 
147,  148-9 
and  intuition,  46-7 
and  life,  Ix-xv,  13,  32-3,  46-50, 
88-9,  101,  147-8,  149,  152,  162- 
5,  173-4,  176-7,  178,  195-201, 
213,  220,  222-3,  224,  226,  257-9, 
261,  266,  270,  271,  313,  361-2, 
365 

and  inert  matter,  166,  168,  179, 


406 


INDEX 


Understanding  {Continued) 

194- 5,  198,  205-6,  207,  219,  355 
and  the  ready-made,  xiii,  48,- 

237,  250,  251,  273,  311,  321, 
328-9,  354,  358 
and  the  solid,  ix 
unlimited  scope  of  the,  149,  150, 
152 

See  Intellect,  Intelligence, 
Concept,  Categories,  Frames 
of  the  understanding,  Logic 
Undone,  automatic  and  determi- 
nate evolution  is  action  be- 
ing, 249 

Unfolding  cause,  73,  74 
Unfor^seeableness  of  action,  47 
of  duration,  6,  164,  340-2 
of  evolution,  47,  48,  52,  86,  224 
of  invention.  164 
of  life,  164,  184 

and  the  willed  order,  224,  342-3 
See  Foreseeing 

Unification  as  the  function  of  the 
intellect,  152,  154,  357-8 
Uniqueness  of  phases  of  duration, 
164 

Unity  of  extension,  154 
of  knowledge,  195-6 
of  life,  106-7,  250,  268,  271 
of  mental  life,  268 
and  multiplicity  as  determina- 
tions of  space,  351-3 
of  nature,  104-5,  189-90,  191, 

195- 6,  197,  199,  322,  352,  356-8 
of  the  organism,  176-7 

of  science,  195-6,  197,  228-9, 

230,  321,  322,  344-5,  347,  359- 
60,  362-3 

Universal  interaction,  188,  189 
life,  consciousness  coextensive 
with,  186,  257,  270 
Universe,  continuity  of,  346 
Descartes’s,  346 

physical,  and  the  idea  of  dis- 
order, 233,  275 
duration  of,  10,  11,  241 
evolution  of,  241,  246  note 
growth  of,  342-3,  344 
movement  of.  In  Aristotle,  323 
mutability  of,  244,  245 
as  organism,  31,  241 
as  realization  of  plan.  40 
rh3rthm  of,  337,  339.  346-7 
states  of,  considered  by  science, 
336.  337 

as  unification  of  physics,  348-9, 
357 

Unknowable,  the,  of  evolutionism, 
xi 

the,  in  Kant,  204,  205,  206 


Unmaking,  the  nature  of  the  pro- 
cess of  materiality,  245,  248, 

249,  251,  272,  342-3 
Unorganized  bodies,  7-8,  14,  20, 

21,  186.  See  inert  matter 
instruments,  137-9,  140-1,  150-1 
matter,  cleft  between,  and  the 
organized,  190,  191,  196,  197-9 
matter,  imitation  of  the  or- 
ganized by,  33-4,  35,  36 
matter  and  science,  194-6 
matter.  See  inert  matter 
Unwinding  cause,  73 

of  immutability  in  Greek  phi- 
losophy, 325,  352 
Upspringing  of  invention,  164 
Utility,  4-5,  150,  152,  154-5,  158-9, 
160,  168,  187,  195-6,  247-8,  297- 

8,  328-9,  330 

Vanessa  levana  and  Vanessa 
prorsa,  transformation  of,  72 
Variable,  time  as  an  independent, 
20,  336 

Variation,  accidental,  55,  63-4, 

68,  85,  168-9 

of  color,  in  lizards,  72,  74 
by  deviation,  82-3,  84 
of  evolutionary  type,  23-4,  72 
note,  131-2,  137-8,  167,  169, 
171-2,  264 
insensible,  63,  68 
interest  as  cause  of,  131-2 
in  plants,  85-86 

Vegetable  kingdom.  See  Plants 
Verb,  relation  expressed  by,  148 
Verbs,  substantives  and  adjec- 
tives, 303 

Verse  and  prose,  in  illustration 
of  the  two  kinds  of  order,  221, 
232 

Vertebrate,  ix,  126,  130,  131-4,  141 
Vibrations,  matter  analyzed  into 
elementary,  201 

Vicious  circle,  apparent,  of  In- 
tultionism,  192-4,  196-7 
of  intellectualism,  194,  197,  318- 

9,  320 

View,  intellectual,  of  becoming, 
4.  90-1,  273,  298-9,  304,  305, 
310,  326-7 

intellectual,  of  matter,  203,  240, 

250,  254,  255 
of  reality,  206 

Vlgnon,  P.,  35  note 
Virtual  actions,  12.  See  Possible 
action 

geometry,  212 

Vise,  consciousness  compressed 


INDEX 


407 


in  a,  179 

Vision  of  God,  in  Alexandrian 
philosophy,  322 

in  molluscs.  See  Eye  of  mol- 
luscs, etc. 

in  Salamandra  maculata,  75 
Vital  activity,  134-6,  139,  140,  166- 
9,  246,  247-8 

current,  26,  27,  53-5,  80,  85,  87, 
88,  96-105,  118-9,  120,  230-1. 
232,  239,  257,  266,  270 
impetus,  50-1,  53-5,  85,  87,  88, 
98-105,  118-9,  126-7,  128,  131- 
2,  141-2,  148-9,  150,  218,  230-1, 
232,  247-8,  250,  252,  254-5,  261 
order,  cause  in,  34,  35,  94-5,  164 
order,  finality  and,  223-5,  226 
order,  generalization  in  the, 
and  in  the  mathematical  or- 
der contrasted,  225,  226,  230-1 
order,  and  the  geometrical 
order,  222-3,  225,  226,  230,  231, 
235,  236,  330-1 

order,  imitation  of  physical 
order  by  vital,  230 
principle,  42,  43,  225,  226 
order,  repetition  in  the  vital 
and  the  mathematical  orders 
contrasted,  225,  226,  230,  231 
process,  166-7 
Vitalism,  42,  43 

Void,  representation  of,  273,  274, 
275,  277-8,  281,  283-4,  289-90, 
291,  292,  294,  296,  298 
Voisin,  80 

Volition  and  cerebral  mechan- 
ism, 253-4 

Voluntary  activity,  110,  252 
Vries  (de),  24,  63  note,  85 
Wasps,  instinct  in,  140,  172 


Weapons  and  intellect,  137 
Weismann,  26,  78,  80-1 
Will  and  caprice,  47 
and  cerebral  mechanism,  252 
current  of,  penetrating  matter, 
237 

insertion  of,  into  reality,  305- 
6,  307 

and  relaxation,  201,  207-8 
and  mechanism  in  disorder,  233 
tension  of,  199,  201,  207-8 
Willed  order,  mutual  contingency 
of  willed  order  and  mathe- 
matical order,  231-3 
unforeseeability  in  the,  224, 
342-3 

Willing,  coincidence  of  seeing 
and,  in  intuition,  237 
Wilson,  E.  B.,  36 
Wolff,  75  note 
Words  and  states,  4,  302-3 
three  classes  of,  corresponding 
to  three  clases  of  representa- 
tion, 302-3,  313-4 
World,  intelligible,  162-3 
principle:  conciousness,  237,  261 
Worms,  in  illustration  of  am- 
biguity of  primitive  organ- 
isms, 130 

Yellow-wunged  sphex,  paralyzing 
instinct  in,  172 

Zeno  on  motion,  308-13 
Zone  of  potentialities  surround- 
ing acts,  179-80,  181,  264 
Zoology,  128-9 

Zoospores  of  algae,  in  illustra- 
tion of  mobility  in  plants,  112 


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Mr.  Podmore  essays  to  give  a complete  account  of  the  recent  evidence 
published  by  the  Society  of  Psychical  Research  and  its  bearing  upon 
the  hypothesis  of  a life  after  death.  He  also  discusses  the  physical 
phenomena  of  Eusapia  Palladino,  but  gives  the  most  attention  to  mes- 
sages received  through  trance  and  automatic  writing  purporting  to 
come  from  the  spirit  of  the  dead. 

MASON’S  HYPNOTISM  AND  SUGGESTION  in 
Therapeutics,  Education,  and  Reform 
344  pp.  i2mo.  $1.50. 

Book  Buyer  : “ The  tone  of  Dr.  Mason’s  book  could  not  be  better.  . . . 
The  statements  of  a modest,  earnest,  candid  man  of  science,  who  is  not 
thinking  of  himself,  but  who,  through  facts,  is  seeking  after  law  and 
through  law,  for  the  newer  therapeutics,  the  wider  education,  the  nobler 
living.” 

N.  Y.  Herald : “Written  by  a practising  physician,  who  finds  an 
incidental  interest  in  the  scientific  study  of  an  important  subject.  He 
deprecates  the  sensational  ways  in  which  hypnotism  has  been  exploited 
by  the  periodicals  and  the  press,  so  that  the  unlearned  and  unstable 
have  been  duped  into  all  sorts  of  extravagant  ideas  as  to  its  possibilities.” 

Public  Opinion : “A  model  of  simplicity  and  common  sense.  The 
book  gives  a clear  idea  of  the  meaning  of  hypnotism  and  suggestion  in 
a scientific  sense,  but  it  is  to  be  more  highly  valued  for  its  exposition  of 
the  utilities  (and  illustrations)  of  these  agents  of  reform  and  thera- 
peutics.” 

Chicago  Evening  Post : “ He  discusses  the  question  with  earnestness, 
candor  and  many  illustrations.  . . . He  says  many  things  that  are 
sensible  and  suggestive.” 

Churchman  : " The  book  has  a very  practical  value,  and  considerable 
ethical  significance.” 

MASON’S 

TELEPATHY  AND  THE  SUBLIMINAL  SELF 

Treating  of  Hypnotism,  Automatism,  Dreams,  and  Phantasms. 
343  PP*  i2mo.  $1.50. 

Boston  Transcript : “ He  repudiates  the  idea  of  the  supernatural  alto- 
gether, and  in  this  he  is  in  accord  with  the  best  thought  of  the  day.  . . . 
Interesting  and  logical.” 

N.  Y.  Times : "The  curious  matter  he  treats  about  he  presents  in  an 
interesting  manner.” 

Outlook  : “ Will  have  many  readers.  ...  A not  inconsiderable  con- 
tribution to  psychical  research.” 

Chicago  Tribune:  “ Certain  to  attract  wide  attention  ; . . . thoroughly 
interesting.  . . . The  spirit  of  his  work  is  such  as  to  deserve  respectful 
attention  from  every  scientific  mind.” 


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LEADING  AMERICAN  ESSAYISTS 

By  William  Morton  Payne,  Associate  Editor  of  The  Dial. 

A General  Introduction  dealing  with  essay  writing  in 
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**  It  is  necessary  to  know  only  the  name  of  the  author  of  this  work 
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$2.00  net. 

Written  for  amateurs  by  a forester,  this  volume  furnishes  information 
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A personal  and  very  readable  record,  illustrated  by  photographs,  of  the 
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SHELL-FISH  INDUSTRIES 

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FISH  STORIES:  Alleged  and  Experienced,  with  a Little 
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"A  delightful  miscellany,  telling  about  fish  of  the  strangest  kind,  with 
scientific  description  melting  into  accounts  of  personal  adventure.  Nearly 
everything  that  is  entertaining  in  the  fish  world  is  touched  upon  and  science 
and  fishing  are  made  very  readable.”— Alfw  York  Sun. 

INSECT  STORIES  By  Vernon  L.  Kellogg. 

Illustrated,  $1.50  net. 

Strange,  true  stories,  primarily  for  children,  but  certainly  for  those  grown- 
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By  James  L.  Kellogg 
of  Williams  College. 


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mail,  $1.90.  {Just  issued.) 

Presents  the  most  comprehensive  record  of  the  Chinaman  in 
thp  United  States  that  has  yet  been  attempted. 

“Scholarly.  Covers  every  important  phase,  economic,  social,  and 

Eolitical,  of  the  Chinese  question  in  America  down  to  the  San  Francisco 
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“ Statesmanlike.  Of  intense  interest.'*— Hartford  Courant. 

“ A remarkably  thorough  historical  study.  Timely  and  useful.  En- 
hanced by  the  abundant  array  of  documentary  facts  and  evidence.” — 
Chicaso  Record- Herald. 

Immigration:  And  Its  Effects  Upon  the  United 
States 

By  Prescott  F.  Hall,  A.B.,  LL.B,  Secretary  of  the  Immi- 
gration Restriction  League.  393  pp.  $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.65. 

“ Should  prove  interesting  to  everyoT^e.  Very  readable,  forceful  and 
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thoroughly  understands  it,  but  that  he  is  deeply  interested  in  it  and  has 
studied  everything  bearing  upon  it.*’— Boston  Transcript. 

“A  readable  work  containing  a vast  amount  of  valuable  information. 
Especially  to  be  commended  is  the  discussion  of  the  racial  effects.  As  a 
trustworthy  general  guide  it  should  prove  a god-send.” — New  York 
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government,  with  a detailed  review  of  the  arguments  for  and 
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The  country  and  the  people  of  India  have  emerged  from 
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marked  by  a vigorous  handling  of  the  modern  problems  of 
colonial  administration.  These  general  problems  and  the 
important  share  taken  in  Lord  Curzon’s  work  by  his  American 
wife  are  of  especial  interest  to  Americans.  Mr.  Fraser  is  an 
acknowledged  authority, 

EDWIN  J.  DINGLE’S  ACROSS  CHINA  ON  FOOT 

Profusely  illustrated  from  photographs.  8vo.  Probable  price, 
$3.00  net.  {October.) 

The  author,  a journalist,  in  1909-10,  went  thru  China  from 
end  to  end.  From  Shanghai  1500  miles  by  river  and  1600 
miles  walking  overland,  to  the  frontier  of  British  Burma. 

The  author  writes  in  a fresh  and  vigorous  style ; is  a close 
observer  and  has  artistic  sense. 

He  was  in  China  during  dangerous  uprisings,  met  with 
many  dangers,  lay  several  days  at  the  point  of  death,  lived 
with  the  Chinese  and  on  their  food.  He  certainly  saw  China 
from  the  inside,  and  he  tells  about  it  and  the  intimate  life  of 
the  people  vividly.  His  personal  fortunes  and  adventures 
hold  the  attention. 

In  every  way  an  unusual  and  important  book  ot  travel. 


GRANT  ALLEN’S  HISTORICAL  GUIDES 

H.  STUART  JONES*  CLASSICAL  ROME 

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J.  W.  CRUICKSHANK’S  CHRISTIAN  ROME 

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The  illustrations  of  “Christian  Rome”  and  “Florence” 
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ing the  building  or  work  of  art  which  the  traveler  sees  before 
him,  represent  one  from  another  city  or  country  which  for 
some  good  reason  is  of  great  interest  for  comparison. 

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HENRY  WILUAMS’S  THE  UNITED  STATES  NAVY 

A Handbook. 

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This  is  a neat,  crisp,  matter-of-fact  account  of  our  Navy, 
with  an  occasional  illuminating  anecdote  of  famous  court- 
martials  and  such.  It  has  been  passed  by  high  authorities 
and  its  publication  officially  sanctioned.  The  Contents  in- 
cludes: Naval  History — The  Navy’s  Organization  — The 
Navy’s  Personnel — Man-of-War  in  Commission— Classes  of 
S|>ips  in  the  Navy — Description— High  Explosives;  Tor- 
pedoes; Mines;  Aeroplanes — Designing  and  Building  a War- 
ship; Dry  Docks — The  National  Defense. 

THOMAS  LEAMING’S 

A PHILADELPHIA  LAWYER  IN  THE  LONDON  COURTS 

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A trained  observer’s  graphic  description  of  the  English 
Law  Courts,  of  their  ancient  customs  yet  up-to-date  methods; 
of  the  lives  and  activities  of  the  modern  barrister  and  solicitor 
—the  “IK.  C.,”  the  “Junior,”  the  “ Devil” — and  of  the  elab- 
orate etiquette,  perpetuated  by  the  Inns  of  Court,  which  still 
inflexibly  rules  them,  despite  the  tendencies  of  the  times  and 
growth  of  socialism. 

Nation  “ The  style  of  narrative,  the  conciseness  of  statement,  and 
the  wealth  of  allusion  make  this  book  one  which  certainly  the  lawyer, 
and  probably  many  laymen,  will  wish  to  finish  at  one  sitting,  and  not 
hurriedly.  . . . VVe  hope  to  see  the  author  appear  again,  and  as  a 
Philadelphia  Lawyer  at  Home.” 

Bookman  quiet  recital  of  facts  ought  of  itself  to  create  a 

revolution  in  this  country.  . . . He  disclaims  any  intention  of  entering 
upon  odious  comparisons.  . . . When  the  Bar  of  America  is  aroused  to 
the  necessity  of  reform  it  will  find  these  observations  ...  a mine  of 
well-digested  information  and  helpful  suggestions.” 

Dial:—"  His  interesting  account  of  the  trial  and  conviction  of  Madar 
La  Dhingra.” 

New  York  Evening  Sun  A suitable  mixture  of  anecdote  and  gen- 
eralization to  give  the  reader  a pleasant  and  clear  idea  of  English  courts, 
their  ways  and  plan.  . . . One  of  the  most  valuable  chapters  relates  to 
the  discipline  of  the  bar.” 

Philadelphia  Press K vast  deal  of  useful  and  often  fascinating 
information.  . . . An  eminently  readable  volume,  which,  although  de- 
signed primarily  for  the  lay  reader,  has  already  elicited  hearty  com- 
mendation from  not  a few  leaders  of  the  profession.  . . . American 
lawyers  are  beginning  to  see  that  much  may  be  learned  from  modern 
English  practice.  . . . On  the  subject  of  the  ethics  of  the  English  bar 
Mr.  Learning  has  much  to  say  that  is  worth  careful  perusal.” 


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,V  1.-. 


I 


I. 


